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THE     DELECTABLE 
MOUNTAINS 


WHY.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


DELECTABLE 
MOUNTAINS 

By 

Colton 


NEW   YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by  Charles  Scribners  Sons 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


Dedicated  to  the  Memory 

of 

My  Sister •,  Mabel  Cotton 


2128521 


feo  they  went  up  to  the  Mountains,  to  behold  the 
Gardens,  and  Orchards,  the  Vineyards,  and  Foun- 
tains of  water.  .  .  .  Now  there  was  on  the  tops  of 
these  Mountains,  Shepherds  feeding  their  flocks,  and 
they  stood  by  the  high-way  side.  The  Pilgrims  there- 
fore went  to  them,  and  leaning  upon  their  staves, 
(as  is  common  with  weary  Pilgrims,  when  they  stand 
to  talk  with  any  by  the  way,)  they  asked,  Whose 
delectable  Mountains  are  these?  .  .  .  When  the  Shep- 
herds perceived  that  they  were  way-faring  men,  they 
also  put  questions  to  them,  as,  Whence  came  you? 
and,  How  got  you  into  the  way?  and,  By  what 
means  have  you  so  persevered  therein?  .  .  .  Then 
said  the  Shepherds  one  to  another,  Let  us  here 
shew  to  the  Pilgrims  the  Gates  of  the  Ccelestial 
City,  if  they  have  skill  to  look  through  our  Per- 
spective Glass.  .  .  .  Then  they  essayed  to  look,  but 
.  .  .  they  could  not  look  steadily  through  the  Glass; 
yet  they  thought  they  saw  something  like  the  Gate. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


TABLE     OF    CONTENTS 

1.  The  Place  of  Abandoned  Gods  1 

2.  The  Leather  Hermit  27 

3.  Black  Pond  Clearing  45 

4.  Joppa  65 

5.  The  Elders'  Seat  81 

6.  The  Romance  of  the  Institute  93 

7.  Nausicaa  117 

8.  Sanderson  of  Back  Meadows  145 

9.  Two  Roads  that  meet  in  Salem  173 

10.  A  Visible  Judgment  189 

11.  The  Emigrant  East  203 

12.  Tobin's  Monument  227 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABANDONED    GODS 


THE 
PLACE  OF  ABANDONED  GODS 


JL  HE  hut  was  built  two  sides  and  the  roof  of  sodded 
poles;  the  roof  had  new  clapboards  of  birch  bark, 
but  the  rest  had  once  belonged  to  a  charcoal  burner; 
the  front  side  was  partly  poled  and  partly  open,  the 
back  was  the  under-slope  of  a  rock.  For  it  stood  by 
a  cliff,  one  of  the  many  that  show  their  lonely  faces 
all  over  the  Cattle  Ridge,  except  that  this  was  more 
tumultuous  than  most,  and  full  of  caves  made  by 
the  clumsy  leaning  bowlders;  and  all  about  were 
slim  young  birch  trees  in  white  and  green,  like  the 
demoiselles  at  Camelot.  Old  pines  stood  above  the 
cliff,  making  a  soft,  sad  noise  in  the  wind.  In  one  of 
the  caves  above  the  leafage  of  the  birches  we  kept 
the  idols,  especially  Baal,  whom  we  thought  the 
most  energetic;  and  in  front  of  the  cave  was  the 
altar-stone  that  served  them  all,  a  great  flat  rock 
and  thick  with  moss,  where  ears  of  corn  were  sacri- 
ficed, or  peas  or  turnips,  the  first-fruits  of  the  field; 
or  of  course,  if  you  shot  a  chipmunk  or  a  rabbit,  you 
could  have  a  burnt  offering  of  that  kind.  Also  the 
altar-stone  was  a  council  chamber  and  an  outlook. 

1 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

It  was  all  a  secret  place  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Cattle  Ridge,  with  cliffs  above  and  cliffs  below.  East- 
ward half  a  mile  lay  the  Cattle  Ridge  Road,  and 
beyond  that  the  Ridge  ran  on  indefinitely;  south- 
ward, three  miles  down,  the  road  took  you  into 
Hagar;  westward  the  Ridge,  after  all  its  leagues 
of  length  and  rigor  of  form,  broke  down  hurriedly 
to  the  Wyantenaug  River,  at  a  place  called  the 
Haunted  Water,  where  stood  the  Leather  Hermit's 
hut  and  beyond  which  were  Bazilloa  Armitage's 
bottom-lands  and  the  Preston  Plains  railroad  sta- 
tion. The  road  from  the  station  across  the  bridge 
came  through  Sanderson  Hollow,  where  the  fields 
were  all  over  cattle  and  lively  horses,  and  met  the 
Cattle  Ridge  Road  to  Hagar.  And  last,  if  you 
looked  north  from  the  altar-stone,  you  saw  a  long, 
downward  sweep  of  woodland,  and  on  and  on  miles 
and  miles  to  the  meadows  and  ploughed  lands  to- 
ward Wimberton,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  Wyante- 
naug far  away  to  the  left.  Such  were  the  surround- 
ings of  the  place  of  abandoned  gods.  No  one  but 
ourselves  came  there,  unless  possibly  the  Hermit.  If 
any  one  had  come  it  was  thought  that  Baal  would 
pitch  him  over  the  cliffs  in  some  manner,  mystically. 
We  got  down  on  our  hands  and  knees,  and  said, 
"O  Baal!"  He  was  painted  green,  on  a  shingle;  but 

2 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABANDONED    GODS 

his  eyes  were  red.  The  place  was  reached  from  the 
Cattle  Ridge  Road  by  trail,  for  the  old  wood-road 
below  was  grown  up  to  blackberry  brambles,  which 
made  one  scratched  and  bloody  and  out  of  patience, 
unless  it  were  blackberry  time. 

And  on  the  bank,  where  the  trail  drops  into  the 
climbing  highway,  there  Aaron  and  Silvia  were  sit- 
ting in  the  June  afternoon,  hand  in  hand,  with  the 
filtered  green  light  of  the  woods  about  them.  We 
came  up  from  Hagar,  the  three  of  us,  and  found 
them.  They  were  strangers,  so  far  as  we  knew. 
Strangers  or  townsmen,  we  never  took  the  trail  with 
any  one  in  sight;  it  was  an  item  in  the  Vows.  But 
we  ranged  up  before  them  and  stared  candidly. 
There  was  nothing  against  that.  Her  eyes  were  nice 
and  blue,  and  at  the  time  they  contained  tears. 
Her  cheeks  were  dimpled  and  pink,  her  brown  dress 
dusty,  and  her  round  straw  hat  cocked  a  bit  over 
one  tearful  blue  eye.  He  seemed  like  one  who  had 
been  growing  fast  of  late.  His  arms  swung  loosely  as 
if  fastened  to  his  shoulders  with  strings.  The  hand 
that  held  her  small  hand  was  too  large  for  its  wrist, 
the  wrist  too  large  for  the  arm,  the  arm  too  long 
for  the  shoulder.  He  had  the  first  growth  of  a 
downy  mustache,  a  feeble  chin,  a  humorous  eye, 
and  wore  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  and  a  faded 

3 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

black  root,  loose  and  Biding  to  hi?  knees.  A  carpet 
bag  lay  at  his  tat,  only  half  fofl  and  fallen  over 
with  an  air  of  depress**!.  He  seemed  depressed  in 
the  same  war. 

^What  *s  die  erring  fbrr~  asked  Moses  Dorfey. 
stofiffly. 

Aaron  peered  anxmd  at  her  shyly. 

•She'k  scared  to  go  home.  I  ain't,  bat  I  mote  be 
::~  I  r'~~  :r.r:r. 

"What's     our  name?" 


He  heiiiatoL  Then,  with  food  defiance: 

"It's  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bees.1" 

A  red  aqiiiimJ  dambered  down  a  low-hanging 
branch  overhead,  and  chattered  sharply,  scattering 
flakes  of  bark.  Aaron,  still  hoMing  Sibria*s  hand, 
leaned  back  on  the  hank  and  looked  op.  All  lines 
of  trouble  faded  quickly  from  his  face.  He  stalled, 
so  that  his  two  front  teeth  stood  out  startlinglv, 
and  held  up  a  long  forefinger. 

"Cherky  little  emn,  ain't  her" 

The  squirrel  became  more  excited.  Aaron's  finger 
jumiiul  to  draw  him  Kke  a  loadstone.  He  slid  down 
neater  and  nearer,  as  far  as  the  branch  allowed,  to  a 
foot  or  two  away,  chattering  his  teeth  fearfully.  We 
knew  that  any  one  who  could  magnetize  so  flighty 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABAVDOSTED    GODS 


•We'd  better  be 

.v_  "..,  •    ".-•__•-    -  .  \-  -•:        -   :         •      .        ^iit   _ii^    :if 


We 

* 

asA  her  ncs 

W-.^     ,     ^, 


*  ft.-  A 


Tkrrbotk 


amlt  gam?  te  Be  iL 
•f  tib:  wwr.  3fr  anfas!  He^M  prt  SBmy  «p  the  dU^ 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

"Snakes!  We  might  just  as  well  sit  here."" 

Silvia  wept  again.  Moses's  face  admitted  a  certain 
surprise. 

"What '11  he  do  that  for?" 

While  Aaron  told  their  story,  Silvia  sometimes 
commented  tearfully  on  his  left,  Moses  stolidly  on 
his  right,  and  the  red  squirrel  with  excitement  over- 
head; Chub  and  I  were  silent;  the  woods  for  the 
most  part  kept  still  and  listened  too,  with  only  a 
little  sympathetic  murmur  of  leaves  and  tremble  of 
sunbeam  and  shadow. 

The  Kincard  place,  it  seemed,  lay  five  miles  away, 
down  the  north  side  till  you  cleared  the  woods,  and 
then  eastward  among  the  foothills.  Old  Kincard's 
first  name  was  James.  And  directly  across  the  road 
stood  the  four-roomed  house  where  the  Bees  family 
once  lived.  It  was  "rickety  now  and  rented  to  rats." 
The  Bees  family  had  always  been  absent-minded, 
given  to  dying  off  and  leaving  things  lying  around. 
In  that  way  Aaron  had  begun  early  to  be  an  orphan 
and  to  live  with  the  Kincards.  He  was  supposed  to 
own  the  old  house  and  the  dooryard  in  front  of  it, 
but  the  rats  never  paid  their  rent,  unless  they  paid 
it  to  the  old  man  or  the  cat;  and  Mr.  Kincard  had 
a  low  opinion  of  Aaron,  as  being  a  Bees,  and  be- 
cause he  was  built  lengthwise  instead  of  sidewise 

6 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABANDONED    GODS 

and  knew  more  about  foxes  than  cows.  It  seemed 
to  Aaron  that  a  fox  was  in  himself  a  more  interest- 
ing person;  that  this  raising  more  potatoes  than 
you  could  eat,  more  tobacco  than  you  could  smoke, 
this  making  butter  and  cheese  and  taking  them  to 
Wimberton  weekly,  and  buying  little  except  mort- 
gages and  bank  accounts,  somewhere  involved  a  mis- 
take. A  mortgage  was  an  arrangement  by  which 
you  established  strained  relations  with  a  neighbor, 
a  bank  account  something  that  made  you  suspicious 
of  the  bank.  Now  in  the  woods  one  dealt  for  direct 
usefulness,  comfort,  and  freedom  of  mind.  If  a  man 
liked  to  collect  mortgages  rather  than  fox-skins,  it 
was  the  virtue  of  the  woods  to  teach  tolerance;  but 
Mr.  Kincard's  opinion  of  Aaron  was  low  and  active. 
There  was  that  difference  between  a  Kincard  and  a 
Bees  point  of  view. 

Aaron  and  Silvia  grew  up  a  few  years  apart  on 
the  old  spread-out  farm,  with  the  wooded  mountain- 
side heaving  on  the  south  and  stretching  east  and 
west.  It  was  a  neighborhood  of  few  neighbors,  and  no 
village  within  many  miles,  and  the  old  man  was  not 
talkative  commonly,  though  he'd  open  up  sometimes. 
Aaron  and  Silvia  had  always  classed  themselves  to- 
gether in  subdued  opposition  to  their  grim  ruler  of 
destiny.  To  each  other  they  called  him  "the  old  man," 

7 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

and  expressed  by  it  a  reverential  but  opposed  state 
of  mind.  To  Aaron  the  undoubted  parts  of  life  were 
the  mountain-side  of  his  pleasures  and  the  level  fields 
of  his  toil.  Wimberton  was  but  a  troubled  glimpse 
now  and  then,  an  improbable  memory  of  more  people 
and  houses  than  seemed  natural.  Silvia  tended  to  see 
things  first  through  Aaron's  eyes,  though  she  kept  a 
basal  judgment  of  her  own  in  reserve. 

"He  always  licked  us  together  since  we  was  little," 
said  Aaron,  looking  at  Silvia  with  softly  reminiscent 
eye.  "  It  was  two  licks  to  me  for  Silvy's  one.  That  was 
square  enough,  and  the  old  man  thought  so.  When 
he  got  set  in  a  habit  he  'd  never  change.  It  was  two 
to  me  for  Silvy's  one."" 

Aaron  told  him,  but  a  week  now  gone,  that  him- 
self and  Silvia  would  wish  to  be  married,  and  he 
seemed  surprised.  In  fact  he  came  at  Aaron  with  the 
hoe-handle,  but  could  not  catch  him,  any  more  than 
a  lonesome  rabbit.  Then  he  opened  up  astonishingly, 
and  told  Aaron  of  his  low  opinion  of  him,  which  was 
more  spread-out  and  full  of  details  than  you'd  ex- 
pect. He  wasn't  going  to  give  Aaron  any  such  "holt 
on  him  as  that,"  with  a  guaranty  deed,  whatever  that 
was,  on  eternity  to  loaf  in,  and  he  set  him  the  end 
of  the  week  to  clear  out,  to  go  elsewhere  forever.  To 
Aaron's  mind  that  was  an  absurd  proposal.  He  wasn't 

8 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABANDONED    GODS 

going  to  do  any  such  foolishness.  The  rather  he  sold 
his  collection  of  skins  to  a  farmer  named  Shore,  and 
one  morning  borrowed  a  carpet  bag  and  came  over 
the  Cattle  Ridge  hand  in  hand  with  Silvia. 

From  Preston  Plains  they  hired  a  team,  drove 
over  the  line  into  York  State,  and  were  married. 
The  farmer  named  Shore  laid  that  out  for  them. 
He  had  a  back  score  of  trouble  with  the  old  man. 

"And  Silvy's  got  a  cat,"  added  Aaron,  "and  she 
catches  rats  to  please  herself.  Silvy  thinks  she  ought 
to  catch  rats  to  be  obligin'.  Folks  that  live  up  these 
trees  don't  act  that  way.  No  more  did  Shore." 

Here  Aaron  looked  shrewd  and  wise. 

"I  wish  Sammy  was  here,"  murmured  Silvia,  lov- 
ingly. 

"First-rate  cat,"  Aaron  admitted.  "Now,  we  did  n't 
marry  to  oblige  each  other.  Each  of  us  obliged  him- 
self. Hey?" 

Silvia  opened  her  eyes  wide.  The  idea  seemed  a 
little  complicated.  They  clasped  hands  the  tighter. 

"Now,"  said  Aaron,  "Silvy's  scared.  I  ain't,  but 
I  mote  be  when  I  got  there." 

A  blue-jay  flew  shrieking  down  the  road.  Aaron 
looked  after  it  with  a  quick  change  of  interest. 

"See  him!  Yes,  sir.  You  can  tell  his  meanness  the 
way  he  hollers.  Musses  folks'  eggs." 

9 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

Aaron  no  longer  surprised  us  now,  nor  did  Silvia. 
We  accepted  them.  We  had  standards  of  character 
and  conduct,  of  wisdom  and  of  things  possible,  but 
they  were  not  set  for  us  by  the  pulpit,  the  statute 
book,  or  the  market-place.  We  had  often  gone  forth 
on  expeditions  into  the  mystical  beyond,  always  with 
a  certain  purpose  to  achieve  there,  and  at  some  point 
it  had  been  necessary  to  come  home  and  face  the 
punishment,  if  there  were  any,  to  have  supper,  and 
go  to  bed.  Home  could  not  be  left  permanently  and 
another  existence  arranged,  any  more  than  the  feet 
could  be  taken  from  the  earth  permanently.  It  had 
been  found  impractical.  Aaron  and  Silvia  were  like 
ourselves.  They  might  conceive  of  living  away  from 
the  farmhouse  under  the  mountain-side  a  few  days. 
They  shrank  from  facing  old  Kincard  with  his  hoe- 
handle  or  horse-whip,  but  one  must  go  back  eventu- 
ally. We  recognized  that  their  adventure  was  bold 
and  peculiar;  we  judged  the  price  likely  to  be  ap- 
palling; we  gave  them  frank  admiration  for  both. 
None  of  us  had  ever  run  away  to  be  definitely  mar- 
ried, or  suffered  from  a  hoe-handle  or  a  horse-whip, 
and  yet  all  these  were  things  to  be  conceived  of  and 
sympathized  with. 

"I  knew  a  blue-jay,""  went  on  Aaron,  thought- 
fully, "that  lived  near  the  end  of  Shored  land,  and 

10 


THE    PLACE     OF    ABANDONED    GODS 

he  never  appeared  to  like  anything  agreeable.  He 
used  to  hang  around  other  folks1  nests  and  holler 
till  they  were  distracted." 

Silvia's  snuffling  caught  his  ear,  and  once  more  the 
rapid  change  passed  over  his  face. 

"We-ell,"  he  said,  "the  old  man '11  be  lively, 
that's  sure.  I'd  stay  in  the  woods,  if  it  was  me, 
but  women" — with  a  large  air  of  observation — 
"have  to  have  houses." 

"We've  got  a  house,"  broke  in  Chub,  suddenly. 

We  exchanged  looks  furtively. 

"They'll  have  to  take  the  Vows,"  I  objected. 

"We've  took  'em,"  said  Aaron.  "Parson — " 

"You'll  have  to  solemn  swear,"  said  Moses.  "Will 
you  solemn  swear?" 

"I  guess  so." 

"And  if  you  tell,  you  hope  you  drop  dead." 

The  blue-jay  flew  up  the  road  again,  shrieking 
scornfully.  The  red  squirrel  trembled  and  chattered 
his  teeth  on  the  branch  overhead.  All  else  in  the 
woods  was  silent  while  Aaron  and  Silvia  took  the 
Vows. 

And  so  we  brought  them,  in  excitement  and  con- 
tent, to  the  place  of  the  abandoned  gods.  Baal 
lurked  far  back  in  his  cave,  the  cliff  looked  down 
with  lonely  forehead,  the  distant  prospect  was 

11 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

smooth  and  smoky.  Neither  the  gods  nor  the  face  of 
the  world  offered  any  promise  or  threat.  But  Aaron 
and  Silvia  seemed  to  believe  in  the  kindness  of  not 
human  things.  Silvia  fell  to  chattering,  laughing,  in 
unforeboding  relief  from  sudden  and  near-by  evil. 

Aaron  had  a  surprising  number  of  silver  dollars, 
due  to  Shore  and  the  fox-skins,  by  means  of  which 
we  should  bring  them  supplies  from  Hagar;  and  so 
we  left  them  to  the  whispering  gossip  of  leaves,  the 
lonely  cliff,  the  lurking  Baal,  and  the  smooth,  smoky 
prospect. 

No  doubt  there  were  times  to  Aaron  and  Silvia  of 
trembling  awe,  dumb  delight,  conversations  not  to 
the  point,  so  that  it  seemed  more  successful  merely 
to  sit  hand  in  hand  and  let  the  moon  speak  for 
them,  pouring  light  down  silvery  gulfs  out  of  the 
abundant  glory  within  her.  There  could  be  seen,  too, 
the  dawn,  as  pink  as  Silvia's  cheeks,  but,  after  all, 
not  so  interesting.  A  hermit -thrush  sang  of  things 
holy  at  dawn,  far  down  the  woodland,  while  the  birch 
leaves  trembled  delicately  and  the  breeze  was  the  sigh 
of  a  world  in  love;  and  of  things  quietly  infinite  at 
sunset  in  the  growth  of  rosy  gloom. 

"It 's  nice,"  Silvia  might  whisper,  leaning  to  Aaron. 

"That's  a  hermit-thrush  down  there,  Silvy.  He 
opens  his  mouth,  and  oh!  Kingdom's  cominV 

12 


THE     PLACE    OF    ABANDONED     GODS 

"Yes." 

"Little  brown  chap  with  a  scared  eye.  You  don't 
ever  see  him  hardly.1' 

"You  don't  want  to,  do  you,  Aaron?"  after  a  long 
silence. 

"Don't  know  as  you  do." 

There  would  be  a  tendency,  at  least,  to  look  at 
things  that  way,  and  talk  duskily  as  the  dusk  came 
on,  and  we  would  leave  them  on  the  altar-stone  to 
take  the  trail  below. 

But  early  in  the  afternoon  it  would  be  lively 
enough,  except  that  Silvia  had  a  prejudice  against 
Baal,  which  might  have  been  dangerous  if  Baal  had 
minded  it;  but  he  did  her  no  harm.  She  referred  to 
Elijah  and  those  prophets  of  Baal,  and  we  admitted 
he  had  been  downed  that  time,  for  it  took  him  when 
he  was  not  ready,  and  generally  he  was  low  in  his 
luck  ever  since.  But  we  had  chosen  him  first  for 
an  exiled  dignity,  who  must  needs  have  a  deadly  dis- 
like for  the  other  dignity  who  had  once  conquered 
him  vaingloriously,  and  so  must  be  in  opposition  to 
much  that  we  opposed,  such  as  Sunday-school  les- 
sons, sermons,  and  limitations  of  liberty.  It  might 
be  that  our  reasonings  were  not  so  concrete  and 
determined,  but  the  sense  of  opposition  was  strong. 
We  put  it  to  Silvia  that  she  ought  to  respect 

13 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

people's  feelings,  and  she  was  reasonable  enough. 

Old  Kincard,  it  seemed,  was  an  interesting  and 
opinionated  heathen,  and  Silvia  had  not  experienced 
sermons  and  Sunday-schools.  That  explained  much. 
But  she  had  read  the  Bible,  which  her  mother  had 
owned,  before  she  died;  and  we  could  follow  her 
there,  knowing  it  to  be  a  book  of  naturally  strong 
points,  as  respects  David  for  instance,  Joseph,  and 
parts  of  Revelation. 

Aaron  did  not  care  for  books,  and  had  no  preju- 
dice toward  any  being  or  supposition  that  might  find 
place  in  the  woods.  The  altar-stone  was  common  to 
many  gods  and  councils,  and  we  offered  it  to  Silvia, 
to  use  as  she  liked.  I  judge  she  used  it  mostly  to 
sit  there  with  Aaron,  and  hear  the  hermit-thrush, 
or  watch  the  thick  moonlight  pour  down  the  scoop 
of  the  mountain. 

That  stretch  of  the  Wyantenaug  which  is  called 
the  Haunted  Water  is  quiet  and  of  slow  current, 
by  reason  of  its  depth,  and  dark  in  color,  by  rea- 
son of  the  steep  fall  of  the  Cattle  Ridge  and  the 
pines  which  crowd  from  it  to  the  water's  edge.  The 
Leather  Hermit's  hut  stood  up  from  the  water  in 
the  dusk  of  the  pines. 

He  came  to  the  valley  in  times  within  the  memo- 
ries of  many  who  would  speak  if  they  were  asked, 

14 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABANDONED    GODS 

but  long  enough  ago  to  have  become  a  settled 
fact;  and  if  any  did  not  like  him,  neither  did  they 
like  the  Wyantenaug  to  flood  the  bottom-lands  in 
spring.  The  pines  and  the  cliffs  belonged  to  the 
Sandersons,  who  cared  little  enough  for  either  phe- 
nomenon. 

We  often  met  him  on  the  Cattle  Ridge,  saw  him 
pass  glowering  through  the  thicket  with  shaggy 
gray  beard  and  streaming  hair.  Sometimes  he  wore  a 
horse-blanket  over  his  leathern  vestment.  He  was  apt 
to  be  there  Sundays,  wandering  about,  and  maybe 
trying  to  make  out  in  what  respect  he  differed  from 
Elijah  the  Tishbite;  and  although  we  knew  this, 
and  knew  it  was  in  him  to  cut  up  roughly  if  he 
found  out  about  Baal,  being  a  prophet  himself  both 
in  his  looks  and  his  way  of  acting,  still  he  went  to 
and  fro  for  the  most  part  on  the  other  side  of  the 
crest,  where  he  had  a  trail  of  his  own;  and  you 
could  not  see  the  altar-stone  from  the  top  'of  the 
cliff,  but  had  to  climb  down  till  you  came  to  a  jam 
of  bowlders  directly  over  it. 

We  did  not  know  how  long  he  may  have  stood 
there,  glowering  down  on  us.  The  smoke  of  the 
sacrifice  was  beginning  to  curl  up.  Baal  was  backed 
against  a  stone,  looking  off  into  anywhere  and 
taking  things  indifferently.  Silvia  sat  aside,  twirled 

15 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

her  hat  scornfully,  and  said  we  were  "silly.11  Aaron 
chewed  a  birch  twig,  and  was  very  calm. 

We  got  down  on  our  hands  and  knees,  and  said, 
«O  Baal!11 

And  the  Hermifs  voice  broke  over  us  in  thunder 
and  a  sound  as  of  falling  mountains.  It  was  Sunday, 
June  26,  1875. 

He  denounced  us  under  the  heads  of  "idolaters, 
gone  after  the  abomination  of  the  Assyrians;  babes 
and  sucklings,  old  in  sin,  setting  up  strange  gods 
in  secret  places;  idle  mockers  of  holy  things,  like 
the  little  children  of  Bethel,  whereby  they  were 
cursed  of  the  prophet  and  swallowed  of  she-bears11; 
three  headings  with  subdivisions. 

Then  he  came  down  thumping  on  the  left.  Silvia 
shrieked  and  clung  to  Aaron,  and  we  fled  to  the 
right  and  hid  in  the  rocks.  He  fell  upon  Baal,  cast 
him  on  the  altar-fire,  stamping  both  to  extinction, 
and  shouted: 

"I  know  you,  Aaron  Bees  and  Silvia  Kincard!" 

"N-no,  you  doi^t,11  stammered  Aaron.  "It's  Mrs. 
Bees.11 

The  Hermit  stood  still  and  glared  on  them. 

"Why  are  you  here,  Aaron  and  Silvia  Bees?11 

Aaron  recovered  himself,  and  fell  to  chewing  his 
birch  twig. 

16 


THE    PLACE    OF    ABANDONED     GODS 

"We-ell,  you  see,  it's  the  old  man." 

"What  of  him?" 

"He'd  lick  us  with  a  hoe-handle,  wouldn't  he? 
And  maybe  he  'd  throw  us  out,  after  all.  What  'd  be 
the  use?  Might  as  well  stay  away,"  Aaron  finished, 
grumbling.  "Save  the  hoe." 

The  Hermit's  glare  relaxed.  Some  recollection  of 
former  times  may  have  passed  through  his  rifted 
mind,  or  the  scent  of  a  new  denunciation  drawn  it 
away  from  the  abomination  of  Assyria,  who  lay  split 
and  smoking  in  the  ashes.  He  leaped  from  the  altar- 
stone,  and  vanished  under  the  leafage  of  the  birches. 
We  listened  to  him  crashing  and  plunging,  chant- 
ing something  incoherent  and  tuneless,  down  the 
mountain,  till  the  sound  died  away. 

Alas,  Baal-Peor!  Even  to  this  day  there  are 
twinges  of  shame,  misgivings  of  conscience,  that  we 
had  fled  in  fear  and  given  him  over  to  his  enemy, 
to  be  trampled  on,  destroyed  and  split  through  his 
green  jacket  and  red  eye.  He  never  again  stood 
gazing  off  into  anywhere,  snuffing  the  fumes  of  sac- 
rifice and  remembering  Babylon.  The  look  of  things 
has  changed  since  then.  We  have  doubted  Baal,  and 
found  some  restraints  of  liberty  more  grateful  than 
tyrannous.  But  it  is  plain  that  in  his  last  defeat 
Baal-Peor  did  not  have  a  fair  chance. 

17 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

Concerning  the  Hermit's  progress  from  this  point, 
I  can  only  draw  upon  guesses  and  after  report.  He 
struck  slantingwise  down  the  mountain,  left  the 
woods  about  at  the  Kincard  place,  and  crossed 
the  fields. 

Old  Kincard  sat  in  his  doorway  smoking  his  pipe, 
thick-set,  deep-chested,  long-armed,  with  square, 
rough-shaven  jaws,  and  steel-blue  eyes  looking  out 
of  a  face  like  a  carved  cliff  for  length  and  edge.  The 
Hermit  stood  suddenly  before  and  denounced  him 
under  two  heads — as  a  heathen  unsoftened  in  heart, 
and  for  setting  up  the  altar  of  lucre  and  pride  against 
the  will  of  the  Lord  that  the  children  of  men  should 
marry  and  multiply.  Old  Kincard  took  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth. 

"Where  might  them  marriers  and  multipliers  be 
just  now?"" 

The  Hermit  pointed  to  the  most  westward  cliff 
in  sight  from  the  doorway. 

"If  you  have  not  in  mind  to  repent,  James  Kin- 
card,  I  shall  know  it." 

"Maybe  you'd  put  them  ideas  of  yours  again?" 

The  Hermit  restated  his  position  accurately  on  the 
subject  of  heathen  hearts  and  the  altar  of  lucre. 

"Ain't  no  mistake  about  that,  Hermit?  We-ell, 
now — " 

18 


THE     PLACE    OF    ABANDONED    GODS 

The  Hermit  shook  his  head  sternly,  and  strode 
away.  Old  Kincard  gave  a  subterranean  chuckle, 
such  as  a  volcano  might  give  purposing  eruptions, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  western  cliff,  five  miles 
away,  a  grayish  spot  in  the  darker  woods. 

Alas,  Baal-Peor! 

Yet  he  was  never  indeed  a  wood-god.  He  was 
always  remembering  how  fine  it  had  been  in  Baby- 
lon. He  had  not  cared  for  these  later  devotions. 
He  had  been  bored  and  weary.  Since  he  was  gone, 
split  and  dead,  perhaps  it  was  better  so.  He  should 
have  a  funeral  pyre. 

"And,"  said  Chub  Leroy,  "we'll  keep  his  ashes 
in  an  urn.  That's  the  way  they  always  did  with 
people's  ashes." 

We  came  up  the  Cattle  Ridge  Road  Monday 
afternoon,  talking  of  these  things.  Chub  carried  the 
urn,  which  had  once  been  a  pickle-jar.  Life  still  was 
full  of  hope  and  ideas.  The  Hermit  must  be  laid  low 
in  his  arrogance.  Apollo,  now,  had  strong  points. 
Consider  the  pythoness  and  the  oracle.  The  Hermit 
couldn't  prophesy  in  the  same  class  with  a  pytho- 
ness. The  oracle  might  run, 

"He  who  dwells  by  the  Haunted  Water  alone, 
He  shall  not  remain,  but  shall  perish." 
19 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

We  came  then  to  the  hut,  but  Silvia  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  Baal's  funeral,  so  that  she  and 
Aaron  wandered  away  among  the  birches,  that  were 
no  older  than  they,  young  birches,  slim  and  white,  col- 
oring the  sunlight  pale  green  with  their  leaves.  And 
we  went  up  to  the  altar-stone,  and  made  ready  the 
funeral,  and  set  the  urn  to  receive  the  ashes,  decently, 
in  order.  The  pyre  was  built  four-square,  of  chosen 
sticks.  We  did  not  try  to  fit  Baal  together  much;  we 
laid  him  on  as  he  came.  And  when  the  birch  bark 
was  curling  up  and  the  pitchy  black  smoke  of  it  was 
pouring  upward,  we  fell  on  our  faces  and  cried: 

"Alas,  Baal!  Woe's  me,  Baal!" 

It  was  a  good  ceremony.  For  when  you  are  doing 
a  ceremony,  it  depends  on  how  much  your  feelings 
are  worked  up,  of  course,  and  very  few,  if  any,  of 
those  we  had  done — and  they  were  many — had  ever 
reached  such  a  point  of  efficiency  as  the  funeral  of 
Baal-Peor.  Moses  howled  mournfully,  as  if  it  were 
in  some  tooth  that  his  sorrow  lay.  The  thought  of 
that  impressiveness  and  luxury  of  feeling  lay  mellow 
in  our  minds  long  after.  "Alas,  Baal !" 

Somebody  snorted  near  by.  We  looked  up.  Over 
our  heads,  thrust  out  beyond  the  edge  of  the  bowl- 
ders, was  a  strange  old  face,  with  heavy  brows  and 
jaws  and  grizzled  hair. 

20 


THE     PLACE    OF    ABANDONED     GODS 

The  face  was  distorted,  the  jaws  working.  It  dis- 
appeared, and  we  sat  up,  gasping  at  one  another 
across  the  funeral  pyre,  where  the  black  smoke  was 
rolling  up  faster  and  faster. 

In  a  moment  the  face  came  out  on  the  altar- 
stone,  and  looked  at  us  with  level  brows. 

"What  ye  doin'?" 

"My  goodness!"  gasped  Moses.  "You  aren't 
another  hermit  ?" 

"What  ye  doin'?" 

Chub  recovered  himself. 

"It's  Baal's  funeral." 

"Just  so." 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  wiped  his  face,  which 
was  heated.  He  carried  a  notable  stick  in  his  hand. 

"Baal!  We-ell,  what  ailed  him?" 

"Are  you  Silvia's  old  man?"  asked  Chub. 

"Just  so — er — what  ailed  Baal?" 

Then  we  told  him — seeing  Baal  was  dead  and  the 
Vows  would  have  to  be  taken  over  again — we  told 
him  about  Baal,  and  about  the  Leather  Hermit,  be- 
cause he  seemed  touched  by  it,  and  worked  his  face 
and  blinked  his  sharp  hard  eyes  uncannily.  Some 
hidden  vein  of  grim  ideas  was  coming  to  a  white 
heat  within  him,  like  a  suppressed  molten  stratum 
beneath  the  earth,  unsuspected  on  its  surface,  that 

21 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

suddenly  heaves  and  cracks  the  faces  of  stone  cliffs. 
He  gave  way  at  last,  and  his  laughter  was  the  rend- 
ing tumult  of  an  earthquake. 

Aaron  and  Silvia  came  up  through  the  woods 
hastily  to  the  altar-stone. 

"I  say,"  cried  Chub.  "Are  you  going  to  lick  them? 
It's  two  to  Aaron  for  one  to  Silvia." 

"Been  marryin'  and  multiply  in',  have  ye?" 

He  suppressed  the  earthquake,  but  still  seemed 
mainly  interested  in  Baal's  funeral. 

Aaron  said,  "She's  Mrs.  Bees,  anyhow." 

"Just  so.  Baal's  dead.  That  hermit's  some  lively." 

"We'll  get  an  oracle  on  him,"  said  Moses.  "What 
you  going  to  do  to  Aaron  and  Silvia?" 

Here  Silvia  cast  herself  on  the  old  man  suddenly 
and  wept  on  his  shoulder.  One  often  noticed  how 
girls  would  start  up  and  cry  on  a  person. 

Maybe  the  earthquake  had  brought  up  subsoils 
and  mellowed  things;  at  least  Kincard  made  no 
motion  to  lick  some  one,  though  he  looked  bored, 
as  any  fellow  might. 

"Oh,  we-ell,  I  don't  know — er — what's  that 
oracle?" 

"He  who  dwells  by  the  Haunted  Water  alone, 
He  shall  not  remain,  but  shall  perish," 


THE     PLACE     OF    ABANDONED     GODS 

"It's  going  to  be  like  that,1'  said  Chub.  "Won't 
it  fetch  him,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"It  ought  to,"  said  the  old  man,  working  his  jaw. 
"It  ought  to." 

The  black  smoke  had  ceased,  and  flames  were 
crackling  and  dancing  all  over  the  funeral  pyre.  The 
clearer  smoke  floated  up  against  the  face  of  the 
lonesome  cliff.  Aaron  and  Silvia  clasped  hands  un- 
frightened.  The  old  man  now  and  then  rumbled  sub- 
terraneously  in  his  throat.  Peace  was  everywhere, 
and  presently  Baal-Peor  was  ashes. 


23 


THE    LEATHER    HERMIT 


THE    LEATHER    HERMIT 


JL  o  know  the  Wyantenaug  thoroughly  is  to  be  wise 
in  rivers;  which  if  any  one  doubts,  let  him  follow  it 
from  its  springs  to  the  sea — a  possible  fortnight — 
and  consider  then  how  he  is  a  changed  man  with 
respect  to  rivers.  Not  that  by  any  means  it  is  the 
epitome  of  rivers.  It  is  no  spendthrift  flood-stream 
to  be  whirling  over  the  bottom-lands  in  April  and 
scarcely  able  to  wet  its  middle  stones  in  August, 
but  a  shrewd  and  honest  river,  a  canny  river  flowing 
among  a  canny  folk,  a  companionable  river,  loving 
both  laughter  and  sentiment,  with  a  taste  for  the 
varieties  of  life  and  a  fine  vein  of  humor.  Observe 
how  it  dances  and  sputters  down  the  rapids — not 
really  losing  its  temper,  but  pretending  to  be  nervous 
— dives  into  that  sloping  pass  where  the  rocks  hang 
high  and  drip  forever,  runs  through  it  like  a  sleuth- 
hound,  darkly  and  savagely,  and  saunters  out  into 
the  sunlight,  as  who  should  say  in  a  guileless  man- 
ner, "You  don't  happen  to  know  where  I'm  going ?" 
Then  it  wanders  about  the  valley,  spreads  out  com- 
fortably and  lies  quiet  a  space,  "But  it  really  makes 
no  difference,  you  know11;  and  after  that  gives  a 

27 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

chuckle,  rounds  a  bunch  of  hills  and  goes  scamper- 
ing off,  quite  taken  up  with  a  new  idea.  And  so  in 
many  ways  it  is  an  entertaining  and  friendly  river, 
with  a  liking  for  a  joke  and  a  pretty  notion  of  dra- 
matic effect. 

But,  of  all  times  and  places,  I  think  it  most  beau- 
tiful in  the  twilight  and  along  that  stretch,  called 
of  late  the  Haunted  Water,  opposite  the  village  of 
Preston  Plains.  The  Cattle  Ridge  with  its  long  heav- 
ing spine  comes  down  on  the  valley  from  the  east, 
seeming  to  have  it  very  much  in  mind  to  walk  over 
and  do  something  to  Preston  Plains  three  miles  be- 
yond; but  it  thought  better  of  that  long  ago.  The 
Wyantenaug  goes  close  beneath  it  in  sheer  bravado: 
"You  try  to  cross  me  and  you  get  jolly  wet";  for 
the  Wyantenaug  is  very  deep  and  broad  just  here. 
The  Cattle  Ridge,  therefore,  merely  wrinkles  its 
craggy  brows  with  a  puzzled  air,  and  Preston  Plains 
is  untroubled  save  of  its  own  inhabitants.  As  to  that 
matter  the  people  of  the  village  of  Hagar  have 
opinions.  The  valley  road  goes  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river — naturally,  for  there  are  the  pastures,  the 
feeding  cattle,  the  corn-fields,  and  farmhouses — and 
the  Cattle  Ridge  side  is  steep,  and  threaded  by  a  foot- 
path only,  for  a  mile  or  more,  up  to  Hants  Corby's 
place.  Hants  Corby^s  is  not  much  of  a  place  either. 

28 


THE    LEATHER    HERMIT 

In  old  times  the  footpath  was  seldom  used,  except 
by  the  Leather  Hermit.  No  boy  in  Hagar  would  go 
that  way  for  his  life,  though  we  often  went  up  and 
down  on  the  river,  and  saw  the  Leather  Hermit  fish- 
ing. The  minister  in  Hagar  visited  him  once  or  twice, 
and  probably  went  by  the  footpath.  I  remember  dis- 
tinctly how  he  shook  his  head  and  said  that  the  Her- 
mit sought  salvation  at  any  rate  by  a  narrow  way, 
and  how  the  miller's  wife  remonstrated  with  him  for 
seeming  to  take  the  Hermit  seriously. 

'"You  don't  mean  to  say  he  ain't  crazy,"  she  said, 
in  anxious  defence  of  standard  reason. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,  yes." 

The  minister  sighed  and  rubbed  his  chin  uneasily, 
and  Mrs.  Mather  recovered  her  ordinary  state  of 
mind,  which  was  a  state  of  suppressed  complaint. 

I  was  saying  that  the  footpath  was  seldom  used. 
Hants  Corby  would  have  used  it — for  he  was  too 
shiftless  to  be  afraid — if  the  river  had  run  the  other 
way.  As  it  was,  he  preferred  to  drift  down  in  his 
boat  and  row  back  when  he  had  to.  He  found  that 
easier,  being  very  shiftless.  The  Hermit  himself  went 
on  the  river,  except  in  the  spring  when  the  current 
below  was  too  strong. 

The  opinions  of  the  Leather  Hermit  may  be 
shown  in  this  way.  If  you  came  on  him,  no  matter 

29 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

how  suddenly,  and  asked  whose  land  that  was  across 
the  river,  he  would  answer  promptly,  "The  devilV; 
whereas  it  belonged  to  Bazilloa  Armitage,  a  pillar  of 
the  church  in  Preston  Plains,  who  quarrelled  zeal- 
ously with  the  other  pillars;  so  that,  as  one  sees, 
the  Leather  Hermit  was  not  in  sympathy  with  the 
church  in  Preston  Plains. 

The  people  of  the  valley  differed  about  him 
according  to  humor,  and  he  used  strong  language 
regarding  the  people  of  the  valley  according  to  op- 
portunity, especially  regarding  Bazilloa  Armitage. 
He  denounced  Bazilloa  Armitage  publicly  in  Preston 
Plains  as  a  hypocrite,  a  backbiter,  and  a  man  with 
a  muck  rake — with  other  language  stronger  still. 
Bazilloa  Armitage  felt  hurt,  for  he  was,  in  fact, 
rather  close,  and  exceedingly  respectable.  Besides  it 
is  painful  to  be  damned  by  a  man  who  means  ex- 
actly what  he  says. 

To  speak  particularly,  this  was  in  the  year  1875; 
for  the  next  year  we  camped  near  the  spot,  and 
Hants  Corby  tried  to  frighten  us  into  seeing  the 
Hermit's  ghost.  Bazilloa  Armitage  was  denounced 
in  June,  and  Hants  Corby  on  the  second  Friday  in 
August,  as  Hants  and  the  Hermit  fished  near  each 
other  on  the  river.  The  Hermit  denounced  him  un- 
der three  heads — sluggard,  scoffer,  and  beast  wallow- 

30 


THE     LEATHER    HERMIT 

ing  in  the  sty  of  his  own  lustful  contentment.  On 
Saturday  the  Hermit  rowed  up  to  Hants  derby's 
place  in  the  rain  and  denounced  him  again. 

Sunday  morning  the  Hermit  rose  early,  turned 
his  back  on  the  Wyantenaug,  and  climbed  the  cliff, 
onward  and  up  through  the  pines.  The  prophets  of 
old  went  into  high  places  when  they  prayed;  and 
it  was  an  idea  of  his  that  those  who  would  walk 
in  the  rugged  path  after  them  could  do  no  bet- 
ter. Possibly  the  day  was  an  anniversary,  for  it  was 
of  an  August  day  many  years  gone — before  ever  a 
charcoal  pit  was  built  on  the  Cattle  Ridge — that 
the  Hermit  first  appeared  on  the  Wyantenaug,  with 
his  leather  clothes  in  a  bundle  on  his  back,  and  per- 
haps another  and  invisible  burden  beneath  it.  A 
third  burden  he  took  up  immediately,  that  of  de- 
nouncing the  sins  of  Wyantenaug  Valley,  as  I  have 
said. 

All  that  Sabbath  day  the  river  went  its  way,  and 
late  in  the  afternoon  the  sunlight  stretched  a  thin 
finger  beneath  the  hemlocks  almost  to  the  Hermit's 
door.  Across  the  river  the  two  children  of  Bazilloa 
Armitage,  boy  and  girl,  came  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  The  boy  pulled  a  pole  and  line  out  of  some 
mysterious  place  in  the  bank.  The  little  girl  sat 
primly  on  the  grass,  mindful  of  her  white  pinafore. 

31 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"You  better  look  out,  Cis,"  he  said.  "Any  fish  you 
catch  on  Sunday  is  devils.  You  don't  touch  him. 
You  cut  the  line  and  let  him  dry  till  Monday.1' 

"Oh,  Tad!"  gasped  the  little  girl,  "won't  the 
Leather  Hermit  tell?" 

"Well,"  said  Tad,  sturdily,  "father  said  he'd  get 
even,  if  it  took  a  month  of  Sundays,  and  that 's  six 
Sundays  by  this  time.  There  ain't  anything  bothers 
the  Hermit  like  catching  the  fish  on  Sundays,  spe- 
cially if  you  catch  a  lot  of  'em.  Blamed  old  fool!" 
grumbled  Tad. 

"Oh,  Tad,"  gasped  the  little  girl  again,  in  awed 
admiration,  "  that 's  swearing." 

But  Tad  did  not  mind.  "There's  Hants  Corby," 
he  exclaimed;  "he's  going  to  fish,  too." 

Hants  Corby  floated  down  in  his  old  boat, 
dropped  anchor  opposite  the  children,  and  grinned 
sociably. 

"  He  dare  n't  touch  his  boat  to-day,"  he  said  in  a 
husky  whisper.  "He'll  raise  jinks  in  a  minute.  You 
wait." 

"Fishes  is  devils  on  Sunday,  aren't  they,  Hants?" 

"Trout,"  returned  Hants,  decisively,  "is  devils 
any  time." 

Both  Tad  Armitage  and  Hants  Corby  ought  to 
have  known  that  the  Leather  Hermit  sometimes 

32 


THE     LEATHER    HERMIT 

went  up  the  Cattle  Ridge  on  Sundays  to  wrestle  with 
an  angel,  like  Jacob,  who  had  his  thigh  broken. 
We  knew  that  much  in  Hagar — and  it  shows  what 
comes  of  living  in  Preston  Plains  instead  of  Hagar. 

Hants  Corby  motioned  with  his  thumb  toward 
the  Hermit's  hut. 

"Him,"  he  remarked,  "he  don't  let  folks  alone. 
He  wants  folks  to  let  him  alone  particular.  That 
ain't  reasonable." 

"Father  says  he's  a  fernatic,"  ventured  Tad. 
"What's  a  fernatic,  Hants?" 

"Ah,"  said  Hants,  thoughtfully,  "that's  a  rattlin' 
good  word." 

Time  dragged  on,  and  yet  no  denouncing  voice 
came  from  the  further  shore.  The  door  of  the  hut 
was  a  darker  hole  in  the  shade  of  the  hemlocks. 
Hants  Corby  proposed  going  over  to  investigate. 

"If  he  ain't  there,  we'll  carry  off  his  boat." 

Tad  fell  into  Hants's  boat  quite  absorbed  in  the 
greatness  of  the  thought.  It  was  not  a  good  thing 
generally  to  follow  Hants  Corby,  who  was  an  irre- 
sponsible person,  apt  to  take  much  trouble  to 
arrange  a  bad  joke  and  shiftlessly  slip  out  from 
under  the  consequences.  If  he  left  you  in  a  trap,  he 
thought  that  a  part  of  the  joke,  as  I  remember  very 
well. 

33 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"A-a-a-ow!"  wailed  Cissy  Armitage  from  the 
bank;  for  it  dawned  on  her  that  something  tremen- 
dous was  going  forward,  in  which  Tad  was  likely  to 
be  suddenly  obliterated.  She  sat  on  the  bank  with 
her  stubby  shoes  hanging  over,  staring  with  great 
frightened  blue  eyes,  till  she  saw  them  at  last  draw 
silently  away  from  the  further  shore — and  behold, 
the  Hermit's  boat  was  in  tow.  Then  she  knew  that 
there  was  no  one  in  the  world  so  brave  or  so  grandly 
wicked  as  Tad. 

Cissy  Armitage  used  to  have  fluffy  yellow  hair  and 
scratches  on  her  shins.  She  was  a  sunny  little  soul 
generally,  but  she  had  a  way  of  imagining  how 
badly  other  people  felt,  which  interfered  with  her 
happiness,  and  was  not  always  accurate.  Tad  seldom 
felt  so  badly  as  she  thought  he  did.  Tad  thought  he 
could  imagine  most  things  better  on  the  whole,  but 
when  it  came  to  imagining  how  badly  other  people 
felt,  he  admitted  that  she  did  it  very  well.  Therefore 
when  she  set  about  imagining  how  the  Hermit  felt, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  with  no  boat  to  come 
across  in,  to  where  people  were  cosy  and  comfortable, 
where  they  sang  the  Doxology  and  put  the  kittens 
to  bed,  she  quite  forgot  that  the  Hermit  had  always 
before  had  a  boat,  that  he  never  yet  had  taken 
advantage  of  it  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 

34 


THE     LEATHER    HERMIT 

Doxology  or  the  kittens,  and  imagined  him  feeling 
very  badly  indeed. 

Bazilloa  Armitage  held  family  prayers  at  six 
o'clock  on  Sunday  afternoons;  and  all  through  them 
Cissy  considered  the  Hermit. 

"I  sink  in  deep  waters,'1  read  Bazilloa  Armitage 
with  a  rising  inflection.  "The  billows  go  over  my 
head,  all  his  waves  go  over  me,  Selah,"  and  Cissy  in 
her  mind  saw  the  Hermit  sitting  on  the  further 
shore,  feeling  very  badly,  calling  Tad  an  "evil  gen- 
eration," and  saying:  "The  billows  go  over  my  head, 
Selah,"  because  he  had  no  boat.  She  thought  that 
one  must  feel  desperately  in  order  to  say:  "Selah, 
the  billows  go  over  me."  And  while  Bazilloa  Armi- 
tage prayed  for  the  President,  Congress,  the  Gov- 
ernor, and  other  people  who  were  in  trouble,  she 
plotted  diligently  how  it  might  be  avoided  that  the 
Hermit  should  feel  so  badly  as  to  say  "Selah,"  or 
call  Tad  an  "evil  generation";  how  she  might  get 
the  boat  back,  in  order  that  the  Hermit  should  feel 
better  and  let  bygones  be;  and  how  it  might  be 
done  secretly,  in  order  that  Tad  should  not  make 
a  bear  of  himself.  Afterwards  she  walked  out  of  the 
back  door  in  her  sturdy  fashion,  and  no  one  paid  her 
any  attention. 

The  Hermit  muttered  in  the  dusk  of  his  doorway. 
35 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

Leather  clothes  are  stiff  after  a  rain  and  bad  for 
the  temper;  moreover,  other  things  than  disordered 
visions  of  the  heavens  rolling  away  as  a  scroll  and 
the  imperative  duty  of  denouncing  some  one  were 
present  in  his  clouded  brain, — half  memories,  break- 
ing through  clouds,  of  a  time  when  he  had  not  as 
yet  begun  to  companion  daily  with  judgment  to 
come,  nor  had  those  black  spots  begun  to  dance 
before  his  eyes,  which  black  spots  were  evidently 
the  sins  of  the  world.  He  muttered  and  shifted  his 
position  uneasily. 

There  was  once  a  little  white  house  somewhere 
in  the  suburbs  of  a  city.  It  stood  near  the  end  of 
a  half-built  street,  with  a  sandy  road  in  front. 
There  was  a  child,  too,  that  rolled  its  doll  down 
the  steps,  rolled  after  it,  wept  aloud  and  laughed 
through  its  tears. 

The  stiff  leather  rasped  the  Hermit's  skin.  The 
clouds  closed  in  again;  he  shook  himself,  and  raised 
his  voice  threateningly  in  words  familiar  enough  to 
the  denounced  people  of  the  Wyantenaug:  "It  is 
written,  'Thou  shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me1; 
and  your  gods  are  multitudes."  He  stared  with 
dazed  eyes  across  the  dusky  river.  The  little  ripples 
chuckled,  sobbed  and  gurgled  in  a  soft,  human  way. 
Something  seemed  to  steal  in  upon  him,  like  a  gentle 

36 


THE     LEATHER    HERMIT 

hand,  pleading  and  caressing.  He  made  an  angry 
motion  to  thrust  it  away,  and  muttered:  "Judg- 
ment to  come — judgment  to  come.11  He  seemed  to 
hear  a  sobbing  and  whispering,  and  then  two  infi- 
nite things  came  together  in  his  shattered  brain 
with  a  crash,  leaving  him  stunned  and  still. 

There  was  a  syringa  bush  before  the  little  white 
house,  a  picket  fence,  too,  white  and  neat.  Who 
was  it  that  when  he  would  cry,  "Judgment  to 
come!11  would  whisper  and  sob?  That  was  not  a 
child.  That  was — no — well,  there  was  a  child.  Evi- 
dently it  rolled  its  doll  down  the  steps  and  rolled 
after  it.  There  was  a  tan-yard,  too,  and  the  dressing 
of  hides.  He  dressed  hides  across  a  bench.  The  other 
men  did  not  take  much  interest  in  judgment  to 
come.  They  swore  at  him  and  burned  sulphur  under 
his  bench.  After  that  the  child  rolled  its  doll  down 
the  steps  again,  and  bumped  after  it  pitifully. 

The  Hermit  groaned  and  hid  his  face.  He  could 
almost  remember  it  all,  if  it  were  not  for  the  black 
spots,  the  sins  of  the  world.  Something  surely  was 
true — whether  judgment  to  come  or  the  child  bump- 
ing down  the  steps  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  thought, 
"Presently  I  shall  forget  one  of  the  two.11 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  dusk  was  creeping  from 
the  irregular  hills  beyond,  over  the  village  of  Pres- 

37 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

ton  Plains,  over  the  house  of  Bazilloa  Armitage. 
Dark  storm-clouds  were  bearing  down  from  the 
north.  A  glitter  sprang  once  more  into  the  Hermit's 
eyes,  and  he  welcomed  the  clouds,  stretching  out  his 
hands  toward  them.  Suddenly  he  dropped  his  hands, 
and  the  glitter  died  out  in  a  dull  stare.  Across  the 
last  red  reflection  of  the  water  glided  a  boat,  his 
own  boat,  or  one  like  it.  A  little  child  in  white  rose 
up  and  stood  in  the  prow,  and,  as  though  she  were 
a  spirit,  the  light  in  the  west  passed  into  her  hair. 
It  was  not  the  right  way  for  judgment  to  come.  The 
dark  clouds  bearing  down  from  the  north — that  was 
judgment  to  come;  but  the  spirit  in  the  boat,  that 
—could  not  be  anything — it  was  false — unless — 
unless  it  rolled  down  the  steps.  And  then  once  more 
the  two  infinite  things  came  together  with  a  crash. 
He  leaped  to  his  feet;  for  a  moment  his  hands  went 
to  and  fro  over  his  head;  he  babbled  mere  sounds, 
and  fell  forward  on  his  face,  groaning. 

Cissy  Armitage  achieved  the  top  of  the  bank  with 
difficulty,  and  adjusted  her  pinafore.  The  Hermit  lay 
on  his  face  very  still.  It  was  embarrassing. 

"I — I  brought  back  your  boat,  so  you  needn't 
feel  bad.  I— I  feel  bad." 

She  stopped,  hearing  the  Hermit  moan  once  softly, 
and  then  for  a  time  the  only  sound  was  the  lapping 

38 


THE     LEATHER    HERMIT 

of  the  water.  It  was  growing  quite  dark.  She  thought 
that  he  must  feel  even  worse  than  she  had  imagined. 

"I'm  sorry.  It's  awful  lonesome.  I — want  to  go 
home." 

The  Hermit  made  no  motion.  Cissy  felt  that  it 
was  a  bad  case.  She  twisted  her  pinafore  and  blinked 
hard.  The  lumps  were  rising  in  her  throat,  and  she 
did  not  know  what  to  say  that  would  show  the  Her- 
mit how  badly  she  felt — unless  she  said  "Selah."  It 
was  strong  language,  but  she  ventured  it  at  last. 

"I  feel  awful  bad.  The — the  billows  go  over  my 
head,  Selah!"  Then  she  wished  that  she  had  let 
"Selah"  quite  alone. 

The  Hermit  lifted  his  face.  It  was  very  white;  his 
eyes  were  fixed  and  dead-looking,  and  he  got  his 
feet  under  him,  as  if  he  intended  to  creep  forward. 
Cissy  backed  against  a  tree,  swallowed  lumps  very 
fast,  and  decided  to  kick  if  he  came  near.  But  he 
only  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  said  in  a  slow,  plain- 
tive tone,  as  a  man  speaks  who  cannot  hear  his  own 
voice.  Cissy  thought  it  silly  that  he  should  not  know 
her  name,  having  seen  her  often  enough, — and  this 
gave  her  courage.  "Cecilia  Armitage.  I  want  to  go 
home." 

"No!"  shouted  the  Hermit.  He  sat  up  suddenly 
39 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

and  glared  at  her,  so  that  the  lumps  began  climbing 
her  throat  again  faster  than  ever.  "That  isn't  the 
name."  Then  he  dropped  his  head  between  his  knees 
and  began  sobbing.  Cissy  did  not  know  that  men 
ever  cried.  It  seemed  to  tear  him  up,  and  was  much 
worse  than  "The  billows  go  over  me,  Selah."  On 
the  whole  there  seemed  to  be  no  point  in  staying 
longer.  She  walked  to  the  bank  and  there  hesitated 
diffidently. 

"I  want  to  go  home.  I — I  want  you  to  row  me." 
There  was  a  long  silence;  the  Hermit's  head  was 
still  hidden  between  his  knees.  Then  he  came  over 
and  got  into  the  boat,  not  walking  upright,  but 
almost  creeping,  making  no  noise,  nor  lifting  his 
head.  He  took  the  oars  and  rowed,  still  keeping  his 
head  down,  until  the  boat  came  under  the  old 
willow,  where  the  bank  runs  low  on  the  edge  of 
Bazilloa  Armitage's  ten-acre  lot.  It  struck  the  bank, 
but  he  sat  still,  with  his  head  down.  Cissy  Armitage 
scrambled  up  the  roots  of  the  willow,  looked  back, 
and  saw  him  sitting  with  his  head  down. 

Cissy  Armitage  was  the  last  to  see  the  Leather 
Hermit  alive,  for  Hants  Corby  found  him  Monday 
afternoon  in  shallow  water,  about  a  rod  from  shore. 
The  anchor  stone  was  clasped  in  his  arms,  and  the 
anchor  rope  wound  around  his  waist,  which  would 

40 


THE     LEATHER    HERMIT 

seem  to  imply  that  he  was  there  with  a  purpose. 
If  that  purpose  was  to  discover  which  of  two  things 
were  true — judgment  to  come,  or  the  child  that 
rolled  its  doll  down  the  steps — every  one  is  surely 
entitled  to  an  opinion  on  its  success  or  failure.  There 
was  a  copy-book,  such  as  children  use,  found  in  his 
hut.  On  the  cover  was  written,  "The  Book  of  Judg- 
ment."" It  contained  the  record  of  his  denunciations, 
with  other  odd  things.  The  people  of  Wyantenaug 
Valley  still  differ,  according  to  humor;  but  any  one 
of  them  will  give  his  or  her  opinion,  if  you  ask  it. 


41 


BLACK    POND    CLEARING 


BLACK    POND     CLEARING 


AN  those  days  I  knew  Hamilton  only  by  the  light 
in  the  south;  for  in  Hagar  men  said,  "That  light  in 
the  south  is  Hamilton,""  as  they  would  say,  "The 
sunrise  in  the  east,  the  sunset  in  the  west,  the  au- 
rora in  the  north,11  illuminations  that  were  native 
in  their  places.  Hamilton  was  a  yellow  glimmer  on 
clear  nights,  and  on  cloudy  nights  a  larger  glow.  It 
crouched  low  in  the  sky,  pale,  secret,  enticing. 

Also  I  knew  that  Hamilton  was  twenty  miles 
away,  like  Sheridan^  ride.  How  great  and  full  of 
palaces  and  splendors  that  must  be  which  shone  so 
far!  How  golden  its  streets,  and  jewelled  its  gates, 
like  the  Celestial  City,  which  is  described  in  Reve- 
lations and  "The  Progress11  in  an  unmistakable 
manner,  if  not  as  one  would  wish  in  the  matter  of 
some  details.  Yet  to  speak  justly,  "The  Progress11 
was  considered  a  passable  good  story,  though  not 
up  to  the  "Arabian  Nights11;  and  Revelations  had 
its  points,  though  any  one  could  see  the  writer  was 
mixed  in  his  mind,  and  upset  probably  by  the  odd- 
ness  of  his  adventures,  and  rather  stumped  how  to 
relate  them  plainly. 

45 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

But  this  story  does  not  include  the  city  of  Ham- 
ilton, although  touching  on  the  lights  in  the  south. 
It  left  its  mark  upon  me  and  cast  a  shadow  over 
many  things  that  did  not  seem  connected  with  it, 
being  a  kind  of  introduction  for  me  to  what  might 
be  called  the  Greater  Melancholies. 

There  are  four  roads  that  meet  in  Hagar:  the 
Cattle  Ridge,  the  Salem,  the  Windless  Mountain, 
and  the  Red  Rock.  The  Salem  is  broad,  level,  and 
straight;  the  Windless  sweeps  around  the  mountain, 
deep  through  the  pines,  the  jungle  of  other  woods, 
and  the  gorge  of  the  falling  Mill  Stream;  the  Red 
Rock  is  a  high,  clean  hill  road,  open  and  bare;  the 
Cattle  Ridge  Road  comes  down  from  highest  of  all, 
from  far  up  on  the  windy  brows  of  the  Ridge,  and 
dips  and  courtesies  all  the  way  into  Hagar.  Some 
time  I  would  like  to  make  more  plain  the  nature  and 
influence  of  the  Four  Roads.  But  the  adventure  be- 
gan on  the  Cattle  Ridge  Road  with  a  wide-armed 
chestnut  tree,  where  certain  red  squirrels  lived  who 
were  lively  and  had  thin  tails.  I  went  out  over  the 
road  on  a  long  limb  with  Moses  Durfey  and  Chub 
Leroy,  seeing  Mr.  Cummings  driving  a  load  of  hay 
down  from  the  Cattle  Ridge:  it  seemed  desirable 
to  drop  on  the  hay  when  it  passed  beneath.  Mr. 
Cummings  was  sleepy.  He  sat  nodding  far  down 

46 


BLACK     POND     CLEARING 

in  front,  while  we  lit  softly  on  the  crest  and  slid 
over  behind. 

And  next  you  are  to  know  that  Chub  Leroy's 
feet  came  down  thump  on  the  head  of  a  monstrous 
man,  half  buried  in  the  hay,  who  sat  up  and  looked 
around,  vast,  shaggy,  black-bearded,  smoking  a  corn- 
cob pipe,  composed,  and  quite  ragged  in  his  clothes. 

"Humph!"  he  said  mildly,  and  rubbed  his  head. 

After  a  few  moments  looking  us  over,  he  pointed 
with  his  thumb  through  the  hay  at  Mr.  Cummings, 
and  leaned  toward  us  and  winked. 

"Same  as  me,11  he  whispered,  and  shook  all  over 
his  fatness,  silently,  with  the  laughter  and  pleasure 
he  was  having  inside. 

It  is  a  good  thing  in  this  world  to  have  adven- 
tures, and  it  is  only  a  matter  of  looking  around  a  bit 
in  country  or  city.  For  each  fellow  his  quest  is  wait- 
ing at  the  street  corner,  or  hides  in  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  peering  out  of  green  shadows.  On  all  high- 
ways it  is  to  be  met  with  and  is  seldom  far  to  seek 
— though  no  harm  if  it  were — because  the  world  is 
populous  with  men  and  animals,  and  no  moment  like 
another.  It  may  be,  if  you  drop  on  a  hay-load,  you 
will  have  a  row  with  the  driver,  or  you  will  thump  on 
the  head  such  a  free  traveller  as  ours,  vast,  shaggy, 
primeval,  pipe-smoking,  of  wonderful  fatness. 

47 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

He  seemed  a  sleepy,  contented  man,  not  in  point 
of  fact  minding  thumps  on  the  head.  The  hay-cart 
rolled  on  gently  in  the  dust.  Mr.  Cummings  drowsed 
in  front,  unaware,  and  the  Free  Traveller  drowsed 
behind,  smoking  listlessly.  The  rest  of  us  grew 
sleepy  too  and  liked  everything.  For  it  was  odd  but 
pleasant  in  a  way  to  look  down  from  the  secrecy  of 
the  hay  on  familiar  things,  on  the  village  dooryards 
and  the  tops  of  hats.  We  seemed  to  fall  into  silent 
league  with  the  Free  Traveller,  to  be  interested  in 
things,  but  not  anxious,  observing  the  hats  of  labor 
and  ambition,  careless  of  appearance,  primitive,  easy, 
seeing  little  importance  in  where  the  cart  might  go, 
because  anywhere  was  good  enough. 

Instead  of  turning  east  at  the  cross-roads,  Mr. 
Cummings  drove  drowsily  ahead  on  the  Windless 
Road,  although  the  Cummings  place  is  east  on  the 
Salem;  so  that  the  hay  was  plainly  going  to  the 
little  pasture  barn,  three  miles  off,  all  one  to  us,  and 
better  for  the  Free  Traveller,  as  it  appeared  after. 
But  he  was  not  interested  then,  being  in  a  fair  way 
to  sleep.  We  lay  deep  in  the  hay  and  looked  up  at 
the  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  white  of  the  creeping 
clouds,  till  the  pine  trees  closed  suddenly  over  the 
road,  the  cliffs  of  Windless  Mountain  on  one  side 
and  the  Mill  Stream  on  the  other,  deep  under  its 

48 


BLACK    POND    CLEARING 

bank.  A  strong  south  wind  came  under  the  pines, 
skirting  the  corner  of  the  mountain,  hissed  through 
the  pine  needles,  and  rumpled  the  hay. 

And  there  was  a  great  smoke  and  blaze  about  us. 

"Humph!""  said  the  Free  Traveller. 

He  went  off  the  back  of  the  hay-cart  into  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  we  too  fell  off  immediately, 
each  in  his  own  way,  on  the  pine  needles.  Mr.  Cum- 
mings  came  up  over  the  top  of  the  load  with  a 
tumult  of  mixed  language,  and  the  horses  ran  away. 

The  great  load  sped  down  the  green  avenue 
smoking,  crackling,  blazing,  taking  with  it  Mr. 
Cummings  to  unknown  results,  and  leaving  the  Free 
Traveller  sitting  up  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and 
looking  after  it  mildly.  He  heaved  himself  up  puffing. 

"There!"  he  said.  "There  goes  my  pipe." 

"It's  all  your  fault,"  shouted  Moses  Durfey. 
"You  shouldn't  smoke  on  hay -loads." 

"Maybe  Mr.  Cummings  is  a  deader,"  said  Chub 
Leroy,  thoughtfully. 

The  Free  Traveller  rubbed  his  leg. 

"You're  same  as  me.  If  he  ain't  dead  he'll  come 
back  with  a  strap  and  lam  some  of  us.  That  ain't 
me.  I'm  going  to  light  out." 

He  slid  under  the  rail  and  down  the  bank  to  the 
stream,  handling  himself  wonderfully  for  so  weighty 

49 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

a  man;  for  he  seemed  to  accommodate  himself  to 
obstacles  like  a  jellyfish,  and  somehow  to  get  around 
them.  So  he  was  over  the  bowlders  and  across  the 
stream,  which  there  divides  Windless  Mountain 
from  the  Great  South  Woods. 

We  were  indignant  that  he  should  leave  us  to  be 
"lammed"  for  his  carelessness.  We  shouted  after, 
and  Moses  Durfey  said  he  was  a  "chump." 

"You  might  come  along,"  retorted  the  Free  Trav- 
eller with  an  injured  manner.  "What's  hindering?  I 
lugs  nobody.  I  lets  folks  alone." 

He  was  at  the  wood's  edge  by  this  time,  where  a 
dim  green  path  went  in,  looked  over  his  shoulder  a 
moment,  and  then  disappeared.  We  scrambled  down 
the  bank  and  over  the  bowlders,  for  it  was  not  de- 
sirable to  wait  for  Mr.  Cummings,  and  Hagar  itself 
would  be  no  refuge.  Hagar  was  a  place  where  criti- 
cisms were  made,  while  the  green  woods  have  never 
a  comment  on  any  folly,  but  are  good  comrades  to 
all  who  have  the  temper  to  like  them.  We  caught 
up  with  him  by  dint  of  running  and  followed  si- 
lently. It  grew  dusky  with  the  lateness  of  the  after- 
noon, the  pale  green  light  turning  dark,  and  we 
were  solemn  and  rather  low  in  our  minds.  The  Free 
Traveller  seemed  to  grow  more  vast  in  outline. 
Being  short  of  wind  he  wheezed  and  moaned  and 

50 


BLACK    POND    CLEARING 

what  with  his  swaying  as  he  walked,  and  his  great 
humpy  shoulders  and  all,  he  looked  less  and  less  like 
a  man,  and  more  and  more  like  a  Thing.  Sometimes 
a  tree  would  creak  suddenly  near  at  hand,  and  I 
fancied  there  were  other  people  in  the  woods,  whis- 
pering and  all  going  the  way  we  went,  to  see  what 
would  come  to  us  in  the  end. 

So  it  went  on  till  we  came  on  a  little  clearing,  be- 
tween the  forest  and  a  swamp.  A  black  pond,  tinted 
a  bit  with  the  sunset,  lay  below  along  the  edge  of 
the  swamp;  and  we  knew  mainly  where  we  were,  for 
there  was  a  highway  somewhere  beyond  the  swamp, 
connecting  the  valleys  of  the  Wyantenaug  and  the 
Pilgrim.  But  none  the  less  for  the  highway  it  seemed 
a  lonely  place,  fit  for  congregations  of  ghosts.  The 
pond  was  unknown  to  me,  and  it  looked  very  still 
and  oily.  The  forest  seemed  to  crowd  about  and  over- 
hang the  clearing.  On  the  western  side  was  a  heap  of 
caverned  bowlders,  and  a  fire  burned  in  front  with 
three  persons  sitting  beside  it. 

The  Free  Traveller  slid  along  the  wood's  edge 
noiselessly  but  without  hesitation,  and  coming  to 
the  fire  was  greeted.  One  of  those  who  sat  there  was 
a  tall  old  man  with  very  light  blue  eyes  and  promi- 
nent, his  beard  white  and  long.  As  we  came  to 
know,  he  was  called  the  "Prophet."  He  said: 

51 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

"How  do,  Humpy?"  so  that  we  knew  the  Free 
Traveller  was  called  Humpy,  either  for  the  shape  of 
his  shoulders  or  for  the  word  he  used  to  express 
himself.  There  was  a  younger  man,  with  a  retreating 
chin,  and  a  necktie,  but  no  collar,  and  there  was  a 
silent  woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head. 

"These  are  friends  o'  mine,"  said  the  Free  Trav- 
eller to  the  older  man.  "Make  you  acquainted. 
That's  Showman  Bobby,  and  that's  the  Prophet." 

A  vast  chuckle  of  mirth  started  then  from  deep 
within  him  and  surged  through  his  throat, — such  a 
laugh  as  would  naturally  come  from  a  whale  or  some 
creature  of  a  past  age,  whose  midriff  was  boundless. 

"Ho!""  he  said.  "Bloke  with  a  hay-load  lit  under 
him.  Ho,  Ho!" 

"Gen'leman,"  said  the  Prophet  with  a  fluent  wave 
of  his  hand.  "Friends  of  Humpy's.  That's  enough. 
Any  grub,  Humpy?" 

The  Free  Traveller  brought  out  a  round  loaf  and 
some  meat  done  up  in  a  newspaper.  He  might  have 
carried  a  number  of  such  things  about  him  without 
making  any  great  difference  in  his  contour.  The 
Prophet  did  not  ask  about  the  hay-load,  or  where 
the  bread  and  meat  came  from. 

The  daylight  was  fading  now  in  the  clearing,  and 
presently  a  few  thin  stars  were  out.  It  might  have 

52 


BLACK    POND    CLEARING 

occurred  to  persons  of  better  regulated  fancies  than 
ours  that  they  were  due  at  supper  long  since  with 
other  friends  of  staider  qualities,  and  that  now  the 
wood-paths  were  too  dark  to  follow.  Perhaps  it  did; 
but  it  could  not  have  seemed  a  fair  reason  to  be 
troubled,  that  we  were  last  seen  in  company  with 
the  Free  Traveller,  so  fat  and  friendly  a  man.  I  re- 
member better  that  the  Black  Pond  reflected  no 
stars,  that  the  gleams  from  the  fire  played  fearful 
games  along  the  wood's  edge  and  the  bowlders,  and 
how,  beyond  the  Black  Pond,  the  swamp  and  the 
close-cuddled  hills,  the  lights  of  Hamilton  crouched 
low  under  the  sky.  Opposite  us  across  the  fire  sat 
that  woman  who  said  nothing,  and  her  face  was 
shadowed  by  her  shawL 

Showman  Bobby  and  the  Free  Traveller  went 
to  sleep,  Bobby  on  his  face  and  the  Free  Traveller 
accommodating  himself.  The  Prophet  sat  up  and 
kept  us  company;  for  we  asked  him  questions  natu- 
rally, and  he  seemed  interested  to  answer,  and  was 
fluent  and  striking  in  his  speech.  They  were  a  run- 
out Company  and  very  low  in  their  luck;  and  it 
seemed  that  Bobby  was  the  manager,  a  tumbler 
himself  by  profession  and  in  that  way  of  life  since 
childhood;  and  the  Free  Traveller  was  apt  to  be 
an  Australian  giant  now,  but  in  earlier  years  had 

53 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

been  given  to  footing  from  place  to  place  and  liv- 
ing as  he  might.  The  Prophet  called  him  a  skilful 
man  at  getting  things  out  of  women,  partly  by 
experience,  and  partly  by  reason  of  his  size  and  the 
mildness  of  his  manners.  As  for  the  Black  Pond 
Clearing,  it  was  well  known  to  people  of  the  road, 
even  to  orange-men  and  pack-peddlers,  being  a  hid- 
den place  with  wood  and  water  and  shelter  in  the 
caves  from  rain. 

"That  light  in  the  south  is  Hamilton,11  said 
Chub  Leroy. 

The  Prophet  started  and  looked  anxiously  across 
the  fire,  but  the  woman  did  not  move.  Then  he 
drew  nearer  us  and  spoke  lower. 

"You  look  out,"  he  said.  "She  ain't  right  in  her 
head.  Bobby  painted  the  kid  for  a  pappoose.  It  took 
the  shakes  and  died  queer.  You'ti  better  lie  down, 
Cass,11  speaking  across  the  fire  to  the  woman,  who 
turned  her  head  and  stared  at  him  directly.  "You  'd 
better  lie  down.11 

She  drew  back  from  the  fire  noiselessly  and  lay 
down,  wrapping  her  shawl  about  her  head. 

"I  ain^  been  a  circus  heeler  all  my  time,"  began 
the  Prophet.  "I  been  a  gentleman.  Neither  has 
Humpy,  I  reckon.  When  I  met  Bobby  it  was  West 
and  he  ran  a  dime  museum.  He  took  me  in  for 

54 


BLACK    POND    CLEARING 

being  a  gifted  talker,  and  I  was  that  low  in  my 
luck.  She  and  Bobby  was  married  sometime,  and 
she  did  acts  like  the  Circassian  Beauty,  and  the 
Headless  Woman,  and  the  Child  of  the  Aztecs. 
Humpy's  gifts  lies  in  his  size,  and  he's  a  powerful 
strong  man,  too,  more  than  you'd  think,  and  he 
can  get  himself  up  for  a  savage  to  look  like  a  loose 
tornado.  Look  at  him  now.  Ain't  he  a  heap?  There 
was  a  three-eyed  dog  in  the  show  that  you  could  n't 
tell  that  the  extra  eye  was  n't  so  hardly,  and  a  snake 
that  was  any  kind  of  a  snake  according  as  you  fixed 
him,  his  natural  color  being  black.  We  came  East 
with  Forepaugh's.  Bobby  bought  a  tent  in  Chicago, 
and  we  came  to  Hamilton  a  fortnight  ago.  Now 
there's  Hamilton  that's  a-shining  off  there  with 
its  lights.  And  we  run  away  from  it  in  the  night  a 
week  come  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  I  forget.  We 
left  the  tent  and  outfit  which  was  come  down  on 
by  a  Dutch  grocer  for  debt,  and  Cassie's  baby  was 
dead  in  the  tent.  Bobby  painted  him  too  thick. 
And  there  was  a  lot  of  folks  looking  for  us  with 
sticks.  Now,  that  was  n't  right.  Think  Bobby  'd  have 
poisoned  his  own  kid  if  he'd  known  better  about 
painting  him,  a  kid  that  was  a  credit  to  the  show! 
That's  what  they  said.  Think  folks  coming  round 
with  sticks  and  a-howling  blasphemous  is  going  to 

55 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

help  out  any  family  mourning!  That  ain't  my  idea. 

"Then  a  fellow  says,  'I  don't  know  anything 
about  it,'  he  says,  'and  I  don't  want  to,  but  I  know 
you  get  out  of  here  quick.' 

"And  they  drove  us  out  of  Hamilton  that  night 
ten  miles  in  a  covered  cart,  and  left  us  in  the  road. 
And  the  Dutch  grocer  got  the  outfit.  I  reckon  the 
circus  and  the  city  has  buried  the  kid  between  'em. 
Hey?  Sh!  She's  got  a  quirk.  All  I  know  is  Fore- 
paugh's  shook  us  as  if  we  was  fleas." 

The  Prophet  looked  over  to  where  Cassie  lay, 
but  she  did  not  stir.  Anyway,  if  she  heard,  it  was 
the  Prophet's  fault.  "They're  awful  poor  company," 
he  said  plaintively,  "Bobby  and  Cass.  She  takes 
on  terrible.  She's  took  a  notion  that  baby  ain't 
buried  right.  She  thinks — well,  I  don't  know.  Now 
that  ain't  my  way  of  looking  at  things,  but  I  did  n't 
own  the  outfit.  It  was  Bobby's  outfit,  and  the  Dutch 
grocer  got  it." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  We  could  hear  the 
Free  Traveller  asleep  and  rumbling  in  his  throat. 

"Where  might  you  chaps  come  from?"  asked 
the  Prophet,  suddenly.  "Not  that  it's  my  business. 
Maybe  there  might  be  a  town  over  there?  Hey? 
Yes." 

He  grumbled  in  his  beard  a  few  moments  more, 
56 


BLACK     POND     CLEARING 

and  then  lay  down  to  sleep.  We  drew  together  and 
whispered.  The  three  men  slept,  and  the  woman 
said  nothing. 

It  is  seen  that  sometimes  your  most  battered 
and  world-worn  of  men  is  the  simplest  in  his  way 
of  looking  at  things.  Or  else  it  was  because  the 
Prophet  was  a  talker  by  nature,  and  Bobby  and 
Cass  such  poor  company,  that  he  fell  into  speech 
with  us  on  such  equal  terms.  I  have  set  down  but 
little  of  what  he  said,  only  enough  for  the  story 
of  the  Company,  and  as  I  happen  to  recollect  it. 

It  should  have  been  something  earlier  than  nine 
o'clock  when  the  Prophet  lay  down  to  sleep,  and 
half  an  hour  later  when  we  first  noticed  that  the 
woman,  Cass,  was  sitting  up.  She  had  her  back  to 
us  and  was  looking  toward  the  lights  of  Hamilton. 
There  was  no  moon  and  the  stars  only  shone  here 
and  there  between  clouds  that  hurried  across  the 
sky,  making  preparations  for  the  storm  that  came 
in  the  morning.  The  fire  burned  low,  but  there  was 
no  need  of  it  for  warmth.  The  outlines  of  the  hills 
could  be  seen.  The  swamp,  the  pond,  and  most  of 
the  clearing  were  dark  together. 

Presently  she  looked  cautiously  around,  first  at 
the  three  sleepers,  and  then  at  us.  She  crept  nearer 
slowly  and  crouched  beside  the  dull  fire,  throwing 

57 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

back  her  shawl.  Her  hair  was  black  and  straggled 
about  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  black  too,  and 
glittering.  The  glow  of  the  embers,  striking  upward, 
made  their  sockets  cavernous,  but  the  eyes  stood 
out  in  the  midst  of  the  caverns.  One  knows  well 
enough  that  tragedies  walk  about  and  exchange 
agreeable  phrases  with  each  other.  Your  tragedy 
is  yours,  and  mine  is  mine,  and  in  the  meanwhile 
see  to  it  that  we  look  sedate,  and  discuss  anything, 
provided  it  is  of  no  importance  to  either.  One  does 
not  choose  to  be  an  inscribed  monument  to  the 
fame  of  one's  private  affair.  But  Cassie  had  lost 
that  instinct  of  reserve,  and  her  desolation  looked 
out  of  her  eyes  with  dreadful  candor.  The  lines  of 
her  face,  the  droop  of  her  figure  and  even  little 
motions  of  the  hand,  signified  but  one  thought.  I 
suppose  all  ideas  possible  to  the  world  had  become 
as  one  to  her,  so  that  three  boys  cowering  away 
from  her  seemed  only  a  natural  enough  part  of  the 
same  subject.  It  was  all  one;  namely,  a  baby  painted 
brown,  who  died  queerly  in  a  side  tent  in  Hamilton 
Fair  Grounds. 

We  stared  at  her  breathlessly. 

"You  tell  'em  I'm  going,"  she  whispered. 

"Where?"  asked  Chub. 

"They  ain't  no  right  to — to —  Who  are  you?" 
58 


BLACK     POND    CLEARING 

But  this  was  only  in  passing.  She  did  not  wait  to 
be  answered. 

"You  tell  'em  I'm  going." 

"What  for?"  persisted  Chub. 

"It's  six  days.  Maybe  they  thro  wed  him  where 
the  tin  cans  are.  You  tell  'em  I'm  going." 

And  she  was  gone.  She  must  have  slipped  along 
the  edge  of  the  woods  where  the  shadows  were 
densest. 

We  listened  a  moment  or  two  stupidly.  Then  we 
sprang  up.  It  seems  as  if  the  three  men  were  on 
their  feet  at  the  same  instant,  wakened  by  some 
common  instinct  or  pressure  of  fear.  It  was  a  single 
sound  of  splashing  we  heard  off  in  the  darkness. 
Bobby  was  gone,  then  the  Free  Traveller,  then  the 
Prophet.  We  fell  into  hollows,  over  rocks  and 
stumps,  and  came  to  the  pond.  The  reflection  of 
a  star  or  two  glimmered  there.  The  water  looked 
heavy,  like  melted  lead,  and  any  ripple  that  had 
been  was  gone,  or  too  slight  to  see.  The  Free  Trav- 
eller and  Bobby  went  in  and  waded  about. 

"Don't  you  step  on  her,"  said  Bobby,  hoarsely. 

The  bottom  seemed  to  shelve  steeply  from  the 
shore.  They  moved  along  chest-deep,  feeling  with 
their  feet,  and  we  heard  them  whispering.  The  Pro- 
phet sat  down  and  whimpered  softly.  They  waded 

59 


THE     DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

a  distance  along  the  shore,  and  back.  They  came 
close  in,  whispered  together,  and  went  out  again. 

"Here!  I  got  it,"  said  the  Free  Traveller.  They 
came  out,  carrying  something  large  and  black,  and 
laid  it  on  the  ground. 

"It  ain't  Cassie!"  whimpered  the  Prophet.  "It 
ain't  Cassie,  is  it?" 

They  all  stood  about  it.  The  face  was  like  a  dim 
white  patch  on  the  ground. 

"Hold  your  jaw,"  said  Bobby.  "Hark!" 

There  were  voices  in  the  woods  above,  and  a 
crashing  of  the  branches.  They  were  coming  nearer 
and  lights  were  twinkling  far  back  in  the  wood- 
path,  where  we  had  entered  the  clearing.  I  do  not 
know  what  thought  it  was — some  instinct  to  flee 
and  hide — that  seized  the  outcasts.  They  slid  away 
into  the  darkness  together,  swiftly  and  without 
speaking.  The  Free  Traveller  had  Cassie's  body  on 
his  shoulder,  carrying  it  as  a  child  carries  a  rag 
doll.  The  darkness  swallowed  them  at  a  gulp,  and 
we  stood  alone  by  the  Black  Pond.  Several  men 
came  into  the  clearing  with  lanterns,  villagers  from 
Hagar,  Harvey  Cummings,  the  minister,  and  others, 
who  swung  their  lanterns  and  shouted. 

Now,  I  suppose   that  Cassie   lies   buried   to-day 
60 


BLACK     POND    CLEARING 

somewhere  in  the  South  Woods,  and  it  may  be 
that  no  man  alive  knows  where.  For  none  of  the 
Company  were  ever  seen  again  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  nor  have  been  heard  of  anywhere  now 
these  many  years.  We  can  see  the  lights  of  Ham- 
ilton from  Hagar  as  of  old,  but  we  seldom  think 
of  the  Celestial  City,  or  any  palaces  and  splendors, 
but  of  the  multitude  of  various  people  who  go  to 
and  fro,  each  carrying  a  story. 

The  coming  and  going  of  aliens  made  little  dif- 
ference with  Hagar.  I  suppose  it  was  more  important 
there,  that  Harvey  Cummings''s  hay-load  went  up 
lawlessly  in  smoke  and  flame,  and  never  came  to  the 
little  pasture  barn  on  the  Windless  Mountain  Road. 


61 


JOPPA 


JOPPA 


ON  Friday  afternoon,  the  twenty-eighth  of  June, 
Deacon  Crockett's  horse  ran  away.  It  was  not  a  suit- 
able thing,  not  at  all  what  a  settled  community  had 
a  right  to  expect  of  a  horse  with  stubby  legs  and  no 
mane  to  speak  of,  who  had  grown  old  in  the  order 
of  decent  conduct.  He  ran  into  Mrs.  Cullom  Sander- 
son's basket  phaeton  and  spilled  Mrs.  Cullom  on  the 
ground,  which  was  taking  a  grave  responsibility.  It 
was  done  in  the  midst  of  Hagar.  Harvey  Cummings 
jumped  out  of  the  way  and  said,  "Deb  it!"  There 
was  no  concealment  about  it.  Everybody  heard  of  it 
and  said  it  was  astonishing. 

The  name  of  the  deacon's  horse  was  Joppa.  The 
deacon's  father-in-law,  Captain  David  Brett,  had  an 
iron-gray  named  Borneo.  Borneo  and  Joppa  did  not 
agree,  on  account  of  Borneo's  kicking  Joppa  in  the 
ribs  to  show  his  contempt.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should  have  this  contempt,  being  sleek  and  spirited 
himself,  with  a  nautical  gait  that  every  one  admitted 
to  be  taking;  and  Joppa  did  not  think  it  unnatural 
in  him  to  show  it.  Without  questioning  the  justice  of 
Borneo's  position,  he  disliked  being  kicked  in  the  ribs. 

65 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

Borneo  had  been  eating  grass  by  the  roadside; 
Joppa  stood  harnessed  in  front  of  the  horse-block; 
Mrs.  Crockett  stood  on  the  horse-block;  Borneo 
came  around  and  kicked  Joppa  in  the  ribs;  Joppa 
ran  away;  Mrs.  Crockett  shrieked;  Harvey  Cum- 
mings  said  "Deb  it!"  and  Mrs.  Cullom  Sanderson 
was  spilled.  She  weighed  two  hundred  pounds  and 
covered  a  deal  of  ground  when  she  was  spilled. 

He  crossed  the  bridge  and  tore  along  the  Salem 
Road,  his  stubby  legs  pattering  under  him,  arid  a 
great  fear  in  his  soul  of  the  shouting  village  behind. 
Angelica  and  Willy  Flint  saw  him  coming. 

"It's  a  runaway!"  shouted  Angelica. 

Willy  Flint  continued  swinging  on  the  gate.  He 
thought  it  his  place  to  be  self-contained  and  accu- 
rate. 

"It's  Joppa,"  he  said  calmly. 

But  Angelica  did  not  care  for  appearances.  She 
shied  a  clam-shell  at  Joppa,  said  "Hi  there!"  and 
jumped  around. 

Joppa  swerved  sharply,  the  deacon's  buggy  turned 
several  sides  up,  if  that  is  possible,  bobbed  along 
behind,  and  then  broke  loose  at  the  thills.  Joppa 
fled  madly  up  the  side  road  that  leads  to  Scrabble 
Up  and  Down,  and  disappeared  over  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  leaving  Angelica  and  Willy  Flint  to  gloat 

66 


JOPPA 

over  the  wreck  of  the  buggy.  It  gratified  a  number 
of  their  instincts. 

The  region  called  Scrabble  Up  and  Down,  as  well 
as  the  road  which  leads  to  it,  is  distinguished  by 
innumerable  small  steep  hills  and  hollows.  For  the 
rest,  it  is  a  sandy  and  ill-populated  district,  and  a 
lonely  road.  Westward  of  it  lies  a  wilderness  of 
underbrush  and  stunted  trees,  rising  at  last  into  ex- 
ultant woods  and  billowing  over  the  hills  mile  upon 
mile  to  the  valley  of  the  Wyantenaug.  The  South 
Woods  do  not  belong  to  Scrabble  Up  and  Down. 
They  are  put  there  to  show  Scrabble  Up  and  Down 
what  it  cannot  do. 

The  road  winds  around  hillocks  and  down  hollows 
in  an  aimless  fashion;  and  for  that  reason  it  is  not 
possible  to  see  much  of  it  at  a  time.  When  the  vil- 
lagers of  Hagar  reached  the  top  of  the  first  hill, 
Joppa  was  nearly  a  mile  away,  his  stubby  legs  rather 
tired,  his  spirit  more  tranquil,  and  himself  out  of 
sight  of  the  villagers  of  Hagar.  He  saw  no  point  in 
turning  back.  Hagar  gave  him  but  a  dull  and  unideal 
life,  plodding  between  shafts  before  the  austere  and 
silent  deacon,  unaccountably  smacked  with  a  whip, 
and  in  constant  contrast  with  Borneo's  good  looks. 
Joppa  had  not  many  ideas  and  little  imagination. 
He  did  not  feel  drawn  to  go  back.  Moreover  he 

67 


THE     DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

smelt  something  damp  and  fresh  in  the  direction  of 
the  woods  which  absorbed  him.  He  stopped,  sniffed, 
and  looked  around.  The  fence  was  broken  here  and 
there,  as  fences  generally  were  in  Scrabble  Up  and 
Down.  The  leaves  were  budding;  there  was  a  shim- 
mer of  green  on  the  distant  woods;  and  presently 
Joppa  was  wandering  through  the  brush  and  scrub 
trees  westward.  The  broken  shafts  dragged  quietly 
beside  him.  He  lifted  his  head  a  little  higher  than 
usual  and  had  an  odd  feeling,  as  if  he  were  enjoying 
himself. 

A  tumult,  row,  or  excitement  of  any  kind  was 
considered  by  the  children  of  Hagar  a  thing  to  be 
desired,  assisted,  and  remembered  gratefully.  Some 
of  the  elders  were  much  of  the  same  mind.  Joppa's 
action  was  therefore  popular  in  Hagar,  the  more 
so  that  it  was  felt  to  be  incongruous;  and,  when  by 
no  search  that  Friday  afternoon  nor  the  following 
Saturday  could  he  be  found,  his  reputation  rose  in 
leaps.  He  had  gone  over  the  hill  and  vanished  like 
a  ghost,  commonplace,  homely,  plodding,  downcast 
Joppa,  known  to  Hagar  in  that  fashion  these  dozen 
or  more  years  and  suddenly  become  the  loud  talk  of 
the  day.  The  road  to  Scrabble  Up  and  Down  and 
the  roads  far  beyond  were  searched.  Inquiry  spread 
to  Salem  and  to  Gilead.  On  Saturday  night  notices 

68 


JOPPA 

were  posted  here  and  there  by  happy  jokers  relating 
to  Joppa,  one  on  the  church  door  of  Hagar  request- 
ing the  prayers  of  the  congregation.  Mr.  Atherton 
Bell  thought  the  deacon's  horse  like  "the  deacon's 
one-hoss  shay,"  in  that  he  had  lasted  an  extraordi- 
nary time  intact,  and  then  disintegrated.  Joppa  had 
become  a  mystery,  an  excitement,  a  cause  of  wit.  A 
definite  addition  had  been  made  to  the  hoarded 
stock  of  tradition  and  jest;  the  lives  of  all  seemed 
the  richer.  An  atmosphere  of  deep  and  tranquil 
mirth  pervaded  the  village,  a  kind  of  mellow  light  of 
humor,  in  the  focus  of  which  stood  Deacon  Crockett, 
and  writhed. 

It  was  hoped  that  the  minister  would  preach  on 
Joppa.  He  preached  on  "human  insignificance,"  and 
read  of  the  war-horse,  "Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck 
with  thunder?"  but  it  was  thought  not  to  refer  to 
Joppa. 

As  for  the  children  of  Hagar,  did  they  not  dream 
of  him,  and  hear  him  thumping  and  blundering  by 
in  the  winds  of  the  dim  night?  They  saw  no  humor 
in  him,  nor  in  the  deacon.  Rather  it  was  a  serious 
mystery,  and  they  went  about  with  the  impression 
of  it  on  their  faces,  having  faith  that  the  outcome 
would  be  worthy  of  the  promise. 

Harvey  Cummings  thought  that  the  war-horse  did 
69 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

not  refer  to  Joppa,  and  said  so  on  the  steps  of  the 
church.  "There  wan'd  no  thudder  aboud  him.  He 
was  the  meekest  hoss  in  Hamilton  County.  He  run 
away  on  accound  of  his  shyness."" 

Mr.  Cummings  had  no  palate  to  speak  of,  and  his 
consonants  were  uncertain.  Mr.  Atherton  Bell  threw 
out  his  chest,  as  an  orator  should,  put  his  thumbs  in 
the  armholes  of  his  vest,  and  gazed  at  Mr.  Cummings 
with  a  kindling  eye. 

"For  a  meek  horse,"  he  said  impressively,  "he 
showed — a — great  resolution  when  he  spilled  Mrs. 
Cullom  Sanderson.  I  declare  to  you,  Harvey,  I  give 
you  my  word,  sir,  I  would  not  have  missed  seeing 
Mrs.  Cullom  spilled  for  a  government  contract.11 

«Oh,  indeed,  Mr.  Bell!"  said  Mrs.  Cullom  Sander- 
son, rustling  past,  "clothed  with  thunder"  and  black 
silk.  Mr.  Atherton  Bell  recovered  himself  slowly  and 
moved  to  a  greater  distance  from  the  church  door. 
He  was  a  politician  and  a  legislator,  but  he  found 
diplomacy  difficult.  Several  others  gathered  around, 
desiring  to  hear  the  statesman.  "Now  suppose,  Har- 
vey, suppose  the  deacon  too  should  take  a  notion  to 
run  away,  knock  over  Mrs.  Cullom,  you  know,  and 
-disappear.  Imagine  it,  Harvey." 

Mr.  Cummings  shook  his  head. 

"Can'd  do  it." 

70 


JOPPA 

Mr.  Bell  took  off  his  hat  and  smiled  expansively. 

"It's  a  pleasing  thought,  ha!  He  might  be  trans- 
lated— a — Elijah,  you  know.  He  might  leave  his 
mantle  to — to  me.  Hitherto  the  deacon  has  lacked 
dramatic  interest.  Contact  between  Mrs.  Cullom 
and  Deacon  Crockett  would — "  (here  his  hearers 
stirred  appreciatively)  "would  have  dramatic  inter- 
est—  Ah,  good  morning,  deacon,  good  morning,  sir. 
We  were  speaking  of  your  loss.  We — a — trust  it 
will  not  be  permanent." 

The  deacon  moved  on  without  answering.  Mr. 
Atherton  Bell's  spirit  fell  again,  and  he  wiped  his 
forehead  nervously. 

It  would  be  a  painful  thing  if  a  man  were  sud- 
denly to  enter  into  full  sight  of  himself  as  others 
see  him;  it  is  a  measure  of  distress  even  to  have 
a  passing  glimpse — not  so  much  because  he  sees  a 
worse  man,  but  because  he  sees  a  stranger. 

Deacon  Crockett  had  never  asked  himself  how 
others  saw  him.  He  was  not  a  flexible  man.  The 
grooves  in  which  his  life  ran  had  been  worn  slowly 
in  a  hard  substance.  Its  purports  and  ends  had 
always  seemed  to  him  accurately  measured  and 
bounded.  He  exacted  his  rights,  paid  his  dues,  and 
had  no  doubts  about  either;  held  his  conscience 
before  him  as  a  sword,  dividing  truth  from  false- 

71 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

hood.  He  stood  by  the  faith  of  his  forefathers,  gave 
up  no  jot  or  tittle  of  it;  there  were  no  hazy  outlying 
regions  in  that  faith. 

When  a  man  observes  himself  to  be  a  well-defined 
thing  in  certain  relations  with  other  well-defined 
things,  has  no  more  doubt  of  the  meaning  of  his 
presence  on  the  earth  than  of  the  function  of  a  cog- 
wheel in  his  watch,  his  footing  seems  singularly  se- 
cure; the  figure  he  makes  in  his  own  eyes  not  only 
grows  rigid  with  habit,  but  seems  logically  exact  to 
begin  with.  To  doubt  the  function  of  the  cog-wheel 
is  to  put  in  question  the  watch,  which  is  impossible 
and  a  sufficient  demonstration.  Other  men's  opinions, 
if  worth  anything  or  considered  at  all,  are  assumed 
to  be  respectful;  and  the  assumption  seems  just. 

Why  should  he  not  feel  impregnable  in  his  per- 
sonal dignity,  who  sees  himself  sufficiently  fulfilling 
his  function  in  an  ordered  scheme,  a  just  man,  elected 
to  become  perfect?  Personal  dignity  is  at  least  not 
a  vulgar  ambition.  It  was  the  deacon's  ambition,  the 
thing  which  he  wished  to  characterize  his  life. 

The  deacon  walked  down  the  path  from  the 
church.  He  walked  quietly  and  stiffly  as  usual,  but 
the  spirit  within  him  was  worse  than  angry;  it  was 
confused.  The  whole  neighborhood  seemed  to  be 
laughing  at  him;  his  fingers  tingled  at  the  thought. 

72 


JOPPA 

But  that  was  not  the  source  of  his  confusion.  It 
was,  strangely,  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  malice 
in  the  laughter,  only  a  kind  of  amused  friendliness. 
An  insult  and  a  resentment  can  be  understood  by  a 
man  of  function,  within  his  function;  his  resentment 
maintains  his  equilibrium.  But,  quite  the  contrary, 
his  neighbors  seemed  timidly  to  invite  him  into  the 
joke.  Of  all  the  hidden  ways  of  laughter  one  comes 
last  to  that  in  which  he  may  walk  and  be  amused 
with  himself;  although  it  is  only  there  that  he  is  for 
the  first  time  entirely  comfortable  in  the  world. 

Tim  Rae,  the  town  drunkard,  met  him  where  the 
path  across  the  Green  joins  the  road.  It  was  Tim's 
habit  to  flee  from  the  deacon's  approach  with  feeble 
subterfuges,  not  because  the  deacon  ever  lectured 
him,  but  because  the  deacon's  presence  seemed  to 
foreshorten  his  stature,  and  gave  him  a  chill  in  the 
stomach,  where  he  preferred  "something  warm."  Yet 
he  ambled  amiably  across  the  road,  and  his  air  of 
good-fellowship  could  not  have  been  greater  if  they 
had  met  in  a  ditch  on  equal  terms  of  intoxication. 

"What  think,  deacon,"  he  gurgled.  "I  was  dream- 
in'  las'  night,  'bout  Joppa  comin'  down  my  chimney, 
damned  if  he  did  n't." 

The  deacon  stopped  and  faced  him. 

"You  may  be  drunk,  sir,"  he  said  slowly,  "on 
73 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

Saturday  night,  and  you  may  curse  on  the  Sabbath; 
but  you  may  not  expect  me  to  sympathize  with  you 
— in  either." 

Then  Tim  Rae  slunk  away  foreshortened  of  sta- 
ture and  cold  in  the  stomach. 

Monday  morning  was  the  first  of  May;  and  on 
May-day,  unless  the  season  were  backward  and 
without  early  flowers,  the  children  of  Hagar  would 
go  after  ground-pine  for  the  May-baskets,  and  trail- 
ing arbutus  to  fill  them  with.  They  would  hang  the 
baskets  on  the  door-handles  of  those  who  were 
thought  worthy,  popular  persons  such  as  the  min- 
ister and  Sandy  Campbell;  on  Mr.  Atherton  Bell's 
door-handle  on  account  of  Bobby  Bell,  who  was  a 
gentleman  but  not  allowed  to  be  out  nights  because 
of  his  inferior  age. 

Ground- pine  grows  in  many  places,  but  early  ar- 
butus is  a  whimsical  flower,  as  shy  as  first  love.  It 
is  nearly  always  to  be  found  somewhere  in  the  South 
Woods.  And  the  South  Woods  are  to  be  reached, 
not  by  Scrabble  Up  and  Down,  but  along  the  Wind- 
less Mountain  Road,  across  the  Mill  Stream,  and  by 
cart-paths  which  know  not  their  own  minds. 

The  deacon  drove  home  from  Gilead  Monday 
afternoon,  and  saw  the  children  noisily  jumping 

74 


JOPPA 

the  Mill  Stream  where  the  line  of  bowlders  dams  up 
the  stream  and  makes  deep  quiet  water  above.  Their 
voices,  quarrelling  and  laughing,  fell  on  his  ear  with 
an  unfamiliar  sound.  Somehow  they  seemed  signifi- 
cant, at  least  suggesting  odd  trains  of  thought.  He 
found  himself  imagining  how  it  would  seem  to  go 
Maying;  and  the  incongruity  of  it  brought  a  sudden 
frown  of  mental  pain  and  confusion  to  his  forehead. 
And  so  he  drove  into  Hagar. 

But  if  he  had  followed  the  May-day  revellers,  as 
he  had  oddly  imagined  himself  doing,  he  would  have 
gone  by  those  winding  cart-paths,  fragrant  with 
early  growth,  and  might  have  seen  the  children 
break  from  the  woods  with  shouts  into  a  small  open- 
ing above  a  sunken  pond;  he  might  even  have  heard 
the  voice  of  Angelica  Flint  rise  in  shrill  excitement : 

"  Why,  there  V  Joppa!" 

Some  minutes  after  six,  the  first  shading  of  the 
twilight  being  in  the  air,  the  villagers  of  Hagar, 
whose  houses  lay  along  the  north  and  south  road, 
rose  on  one  impulse  and  came  forth  into  the  street. 
And  standing  by  their  gates  and  porches,  they  saw 
the  children  go  by  with  lost  Joppa  in  their  midst. 
Around  his  neck  was  a  huge  flopping  wreath  of 
ground-pine  and  arbutus.  The  arbutus  did  not  stay 

75 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

in  very  well,  and  there  was  little  of  it — only  bits 
stuck  in  here  and  there.  Joppa  hung  his  head  low, 
so  that  the  wreath  had  to  be  held  on.  He  did  not 
seem  cheerful;  in  fact,  the  whole  cortege  had  a  sub- 
dued though  important  air,  as  if  oppressed  by  a 
great  thought  and  conscious  of  ceremony. 

The  minister  and  the  other  neighbors  along  the 
street  came  out  and  followed.  Some  dozen  or  more 
at  last  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  slight  hill  looking 
down  to  the  deacon's  house;  and  they  too  felt  con- 
scious of  something,  of  a  ceremony,  a  suspense. 

Mr.  Atherton  Bell  met  the  children  and  drove 
his  buggy  into  the  ditch,  stood  up  and  gazed  over 
the  back  of  it  with  an  absorbed  look. 

"I  feel  curious  how  the  deacon  will  take  it,"  said 
the  minister.  "I — I  feel  anxious.1' 

Mr.  Atherton  Bell  said,  it  got  him.  He  said 
something  too  about  "dramatic  interest"  and  "a 
good  betting  chance  he'll  cut  up  rough";  but  no 
one  answered  him. 

The  procession  halted  outside  the  deacon's  gate. 
A  tendency  to  giggle  on  the  part  of  certain  girls 
was  sternly  suppressed  by  Angelica  Flint.  Willy 
Flint  led  Joppa  cautiously  up  the  board  walk  and 
tied  him  to  a  pillar  of  the  porch;  the  company  be- 
gan to  retreat  irregularly. 

76 


JOPPA 

Suddenly  the  deacon,  tall  and  black -coated,  stood 
in  the  doorway,  Mrs.  Crockett  at  his  elbow  pouring 
forth  exclamations;  and  the  retreat  became  a  flight. 
Little  Nettie  Paulus  fell  behind;  she  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  wailed  piteously. 

The  deacon  glared  at  Joppa  and  Joppa's  gro- 
tesque necklace,  looked  after  the  fleeing  children  and 
saw  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  the  group  of  his  fellow- 
townsmen.  His  forehead  flushed  and  he  hesitated.  At 
last  he  took  the  wreath  awkwardly  from  Joppa^s 
neck,  went  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door.  The 
wreath  hung  in  his  front  window  seven  months,  and 
fell  to  pieces  about  the  end  of  November.  Joppa 
died  long  after  of  old  age  and  rheumatism. 


77 


THE     ELDERS'     SEAT 


THE     ELDERS'    SEAT 


JJETWEEN  the  mill  and  the  miller's  house  in  Hagar 
the  Mill  Stream  made  a  broad  pool  with  a  yellow 
bottom  of  pebbles  and  sand.  It  was  sometimes  called 
the  Mediterranean.  If  you  wished  to  cross  the  Mill 
Stream,  there  was  a  plank  below,  which  was  good  to 
jounce  on  also,  though  apt  to  tip  you  into  the  water. 
The  pool  was  shallow,  about  twenty  feet  across  and 
as  long  as  you  might  care  to  go  upstream, — as  far  as 
the  clay  bank,  anyway,  where  Chub  Leroy  built  the 
city  of  Alexandria.  Jeannette  Paulus  walked  all  over 
Alexandria  to  catch  a  frog,  and  made  a  mess  of  it, 
and  did  not  catch  the  frog.  That  is  the  way  of  things 
in  this  world.  Alexandria  fell  in  a  moment,  with  all 
her  palaces  and  towers.  But  there  were  other  cities, 
and  commerce  was  lively  on  the  Mediterranean. 

On  the  nearer  side,  against  the  gray,  weather- 
beaten  flank  of  the  miller's  house  was  a  painted 
bench,  for  convenience  of  the  morning  sun  and  after- 
noon shade;  and  I  call  it  now  the  Elders'  Seat,  be- 
cause Captain  David  Brett  and  others  were  often  to 
be  seen  sitting  there  in  the  sun  or  shade.  I  remember 
the  minister  was  there,  and  Job  Mather,  the  miller, 

81 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

whenever  his  grist  ran  low,  so  that  he  let  his  stern 
millstones  cease  to  grind.  These  were  the  three  to 
whom  the  Elders'  Seat  seemed  to  us  to  belong  by 
right  of  continuance,  because  our  short  memories  ran 
not  to  the  contrary.  Captain  David  was  well  in  his 
seventies,  the  miller  not  far  behind,  and  Mr.  Royce 
already  gray-haired.  They  sat  and  watched  the  rise 
and  fall  of  cities,  the  growth  and  decay  of  commerce, 
the  tumult  of  conquests,  and  the  wreck  of  high  am- 
bition. They  noticed  that  one  thing  did  not  change 
nor  cease,  namely,  the  ripple  of  the  stream;  just  as 
if,  in  history,  there  really  were  a  voice  distinguish- 
able that  went  murmuring  forever. 

After  the  fall  of  Alexandria  Damascus  was  built, 
but  inland,  so  that  it  had  to  be  reached  by  cara- 
van; and  Moses  Durfey  laid  the  foundations  of  By- 
zantium where  the  pool  narrowed  into  rushing  water, 
and  Venice  was  planted  low  in  a  marshy  place  hard 
by  the  seven  hills  of  Rome.  But  you  must  know  that 
Bobby  Bell  built  the  city  of  Rome  absurdly,  and 
filled  it  with  pot-holes  to  keep  frogs  in  and  float- 
ing black  bugs,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  hold  it 
against  the  Carthaginians.  There  were  wars  in  those 
days.  These  were  the  main  marts  of  trade,  but  there 
were  quays  and  fortresses  elsewhere;  and  it  should 
be  told  sometime  how  the  Barbary  pirates  came 

82 


THE    ELDERS'     SEAT 

down.  Rome  was  in  a  bad  way,  for  Bobby  had  one 
aquarium  in  the  Campus  Martius,  and  another  where 
the  Forum  should  have  been.  There  was  nothing 
flourishing  but  the  aqueducts. 

The  three  Elders  would  sit  leaning  forward, 
watching  the  changes  of  fortune  and  event  that 
went  on  from  hour  to  hour  by  the  Mediterranean. 
The  captain  smoked  his  pipe;  the  minister  rested  his 
chin  on  his  cane;  -the  miller's  hands  were  on  his 
knees,  his  large  white  face  stolid,  his  heavy  lips  sel- 
dom moving.  He  was  a  thinking  man,  the  miller, — 
a  slow-moving,  slow-speaking,  persistent  man,  and  a 
fatalist  in  his  way  of  thinking,  though  he  used  no 
such  term;  it  was  his  notion  of  things. 

They  talked  of  old  history  out  of  Gibbon  and 
Grote  and  the  Seven  Monarchies,  and  they  talked 
of  things  that  had  happened  to  them  as  men  in  the 
world;  but  the  things  which  they  thought  of  most 
often,  in  watching  the  children  and  the  Mill  Stream, 
they  said  little  about,  for  these  had  not  happened  a 
thousand  or  two  thousand  years  before,  nor  twenty 
or  thirty,  but  just  sixty  or  seventy.  And  this  was 
why  they  came  so  often  to  the  Elders'  Seat,  because 
something  dim  and  happy  seemed  to  come  up  to 
them,  like  a  mist,  from  the  Mill  Stream,  where  the 
children  quarrelled  and  contrived. 

83 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"1 11  tell  ye  what  ailed  Rome,""  said  Captain 
David.  "She  needed  to  be  keeled  and  scraped.  She 
fouled  her  bottom !" 

The  minister  answered  slowly:  "No,  she  was  rotten 
within.  She  lost  the  faith  in  God  and  in  man  that 
keeps  a  people  sound."" 

"Ho!  Well,  then  she  wa'n't  handled  right." 

The  miller  rubbed  his  thumb  slowly  on  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  "She  was  grinded  out,"  he  said.  "She 
couldn't  help  it.  Corn  can't  keep  itself  from  meal 
when  the  stones  gets  at  it.  No  more  a  man  can't  keep 
his  bones  from  dust,  nor  a  people,  either,  I  'm  think- 
ing, when  its  time  comes." 

The  minister  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  like  that." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  do,  either.  And  I  don't  know 
as  that  makes  any  difference." 

"Ho!"  said  the  captain.  "Bobby's  got  a  new 
frog!" 

And  Chub  Leroy  cried  out  in  despair:  "Look 
out,  Bobby!  You're  stepping  on  the  Colosseum!" 

I  would  not  pretend  to  say  how  long  the  Elders' 
Seat  had  stood  there,  or  how  many  years  the  Elders 
had  come  to  it  now  and  again ;  but  I  remember  that 
it  seemed  to  us  very  permanent,  in  a  world  of  shift- 
ing empires,  where  Alexandria  was  suddenly  walked 
upon  and  deserted,  and  Venice  went  down  the  cur- 

84 


THE     ELDERS'     SEAT 

rent  in  a  rainy  night,  and  was  spoken  of  no  more. 
We  could  not  remember  when  it  had  not  stood  in 
its  place.  It  was  a  kind  of  Olympus  to  us,  or  Delphi, 
where  we  went  for  oracles  on  shipping  and  other 
matters. 

Afterward  we  grew  up,  and  became  too  old  to 
dabble  and  make  beautiful  things  of  gray  clay, 
except  Chub  Leroy,  who  is  still  doing  something 
of  that  kind,  cutting  and  building  with  clay  and 
stone.  But  the  Elders'1  Seat  remained,  and  the  El- 
ders watched  other  children,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Only,  Captain  David  had  trouble  to  keep  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth.  So  that  when  the  Elders1  Seat 
took  its  first  journey,  it  seemed  very  difficult  for  us 
to  understand, — even  for  those  who  were  too  old  to 
dabble  in  gray  clay. 

It  was  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  mill,  past  the  drug  store,  the  Crocketts1  house, 
where  Captain  David  lived,  and  so  on  by  the  cross- 
roads, to  the  minister's,  with  the  graveyard  just 
beyond.  I  remember  how  very  yellow  and  dusty 
the  road  was  in  the  summer  of  '86,  so  that  the 
clay  bottom  cracked  off  in  flat  pieces,  which  could 
be  gathered  up;  and  then,  if  you  climbed  the  wall 
with  care  enough,  you  could  scale  them  at  wood- 

85 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

chucks.  August  was  sultry  and  still.  The  morning- 
glories  drooped  on  Captain  David's  porch,  and  the 
pigeons  on  the  roof  went  to  sleep  more  than  was 
natural. 

The  minister  and  Job  Mather  sat,  one  afternoon, 
in  the  Elders1  Seat;  for  Captain  David,  he  had  not 
gone  out  through  his  gate  those  many  days.  There 
was  history  enough  in  process  on  the  Mediterranean. 
The  Americans  and  Carthaginians  were  preparing 
to  have  a  battle,  on  account  of  docks  that  ran  too 
near  together.  The  Elders  discovered  that  they  did 
not  care  about  it. 

The  miller  got  to  his  feet,  and  lifted  one  end  of 
the  bench.  "Come,""  he  said  gruffly.  "Let's  move  it."" 

"Hey!"  said  the  minister,  looking  troubled  and  a 
bit  lost.  Then  his  lips  trembled.  "  Yes,  Job.  That  's 
so,  Job.  We'd  better  move  it." 

The  children  came  up  from  the  Mediterranean 
in  a  body,  and  stared.  It  was  much  to  them  as  if, 
in  Greece,  the  gods  had  risen  up  and  gone  away, 
for  unknown  reasons,  taking  Olympus  with  them. 
The  old  men  went  along  the  yellow,  dusty  road 
with  very  shuffling  steps,  carrying  the  Elders'  Seat, 
one  at  each  end,  till  they  turned  into  Captain  Da- 
vid's garden  and  put  it  down  against  the  porch. 
Mrs.  Crockett  came  to  the  door,  and  held  up  her 

86 


THE    ELDERS'     SEAT 

hands  in  astonishment.  Captain  David  was  helped 
out.  He  was  faded  and  worn  with  pain.  He  settled 
himself  in  the  Elders'  Seat.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
to  say  anything.  The  captain  smoked  his  pipe;  the 
minister  rested  his  chin  on  his  cane;  the  miller's 
hands  were  on  his  knees,  his  large  white  face  stolid 
and  set. 

"I'm  goin'  to  shell  those  peas  to-morrow,"  began 
the  captain  at  last.  Then  his  voice  broke,  and  a 
mist  came  into  his  eyes. 

"I  bet  ye  the  Americans  are  licking  the  Cartha- 
ginians."" 

On  the  contrary,  the  Americans  and  Carthagin- 
ians, with  other  nations,  were  hanging  over  the  picket 
fence,  staring  and  bewildered.  What  was  the  use  of 
mere  human  wars,  if  primeval  things  could  be  sud- 
denly changed?  The  grass  might  take  a  notion  to 
come  up  pink  or  the  seas  to  run  out  at  the  bottom, 
and  that  sort  of  thing  would  make  a  difference. 

The  sun  dropped  low  in  the  west,  and  presently 
Chub  Leroy,  who  built  the  city  of  Alexandria  ten 
years  before,  came  slowly  along  in  the  shadow  of 
the  maples,  and  St.  Agnes  Macree  was  with  him. 
She  was  old  Caspar  Macree's  granddaughter,  and 
he  was  a  charcoal-burner  on  the  Cattle  Ridge  long 
ago.  They  were  surprised  to  see  the  Elders'  Seat, 

87 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

and  stopped  a  moment.  St.  Agnes  looked  up  at 
him  and  smiled  softly,  and  Chub's  eyes  kept  say- 
ing, "Sweetheart,  sweetheart,""  all  the  time.  Then 
they  went  on. 

"I  remember — "said  Captain  David,  and  stopped 
short. 

"Eh!  So  do  I,""  said  the  minister. 

"You  do!  Well,  Job,  do  you  remember?  Ain't 
it  the  remarkablest  thing!" 

The  miller's  heavy  face  was  changed  with  a  slow, 
embarrassed  smile.  And  all  these  three  sat  a  long 
time  very  still,  while  the  sunlight  slanted  among  the 
morning-glories  and  the  pigeons  slept  on  the  roof. 

There  came  a  day  in  September  when  the  min- 
ister and  the  miller  were  alone  again  on  the  Elders' 
Seat,  but  Captain  David  lay  in  his  bed  near  the 
window.  He  slept  a  great  deal,  and  babbled  in  his 
half  dreams:  sometimes  about  ships  and  cordage, 
anchorage  in  harbors  and  whaling  in  the  south 
seas;  and  at  times  about  some  one  named  "Kitty." 
I  never  heard  who  Kitty  was.  He  said  something 
or  other  "wasn't  right."  He  took  the  trouble  and 
the  end  of  things  all  in  good  part,  and  bore  no 
grudge  to  any  one  for  it;  it  seemed  only  natural, 
like  coming  to  anchor  at  last. 

88 


THE    ELDERS'     SEAT 

"When  a  man  gets  legs  like  mine,11  he  said,  "it's 
time  he  took  another  way  of  getting  round.  Some- 
thing like  a  fish  'd  be  my  notion.  Parson,  a  man  gets 
the  other  side  of  somewhere,  he  can  jump  round 
lively -like,  same  as  he  was  a  boy,  eh?" 

The  minister  murmured  something  about  "our 
Heavenly  Father,"  and  Captain  David  said  softly: 

"I  guess  he  don't  call  us  nothing  but  boys.  He 
says,  'Shucks!  it  ain't  natural  for  'em  to  behave.' 
Don't  ye  think,  parson?  Him,  he  might  see  an  old 
man  like  me  and  tell  him,  'Glad  to  see  ye,  sonny'; 
same  as  Harrier  in  Doty's  Slip.  The  boys  come  in 
after  a  year  out,  or  maybe  three  years,  and  old  man 
Harrier,  he  says,  'Glad  to  see  ye,  sonny';  and  the 
boys  gets  terrible  drunk.  He  kept  a  junk-shop, 
Harrier." 

The  minister  tried  to  answer,  but  could  not 
make  it  out. 

"I  saw  a  ship  go  down  sudden -like.  It  was  in  '44. 
It  was  inside  Cape  Cod.  Something  blowed  her  up 
inside.  Me,  I've  took  my  time,  I  have.  What  ye 
grumbling  about,  parson?" 

In  the  morning  the  shutters  were  closed,  and  all 
about  the  house  was  still.  The  pigeons  were  cooing 
on  the  roof  of  the  porch;  and  Captain  David  was 
dead,  without  seeing  any  reason  to  grumble.  Down 

89 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

at  the  mill  the  miller  watched  his  monotonous  mill- 
stones grinding  slowly. 

The  Elders'  Seat  was  moved  once  more  after 
Captain  David  died,  not  back  to  the  Mediterranean, 
but  further  up  the  yellow  road  and  into  the  minis- 
ter's yard,  facing  westward.  From  there  the  captain's 
white  slab  could  be  seen  through  the  cemetery  gate. 
The  two  Elders  occupied  the  seat  some  years,  and 
then  went  in  through  the  gate. 

But  the  Elders'  Seat  and  its  journeys  from  place 
to  place  seemed  to  have  some  curious  meaning, 
hardly  to  be  spelled.  I  imagine  this  far,  at  least: 
that  at  a  certain  point  it  became  to  the  two  more 
natural,  more  quiet  and  happy,  to  turn  their  eyes 
in  the  direction  the  captain  had  gone  than  in  the 
direction  they  had  all  come.  It  pleased  them  then 
to  move  the  Elders'  Seat  a  little  nearer  to  the  gate. 
And  when  the  late  hour  came,  it  was  rather  a  fa- 
miliar matter.  The  minister  went  in  to  look  for 
his  Master,  and  the  miller  according  to  his  notion 
of  things. 


90 


THE    ROMANCE    OF    THE    INSTITUTE 


THE 
ROMANCE     OF    THE    INSTITUTE 


J3l  ox  quite  two  centuries  of  human  life  have  gone 
quietly  in  Wiraberton,  and  for  the  most  part  it  has 
been  on  Main  and  Chester  Streets.  Main  Street  is  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  long  and  three  hundred  feet  wide, 
with  double  roads,  and  between  them  a  clean  lawn 
shaded  by  old  elms.  Chester  Street  is  narrow  and 
crowded  with  shops,  and  runs  from  the  middle  of 
Main  down-hill  to  the  railway  and  the  river.  It  is 
the  business  street  for  Wimberton  and  the  country- 
side of  fifteen  miles  about.  Main  Street  is  surrounded 
by  old  houses  of  honorable  frontage,  two  churches, 
and  the  Solley  Institute,  which  used  to  be  called 
"Solley's  Folly1'  by  frivolous  aliens. 

Mr.  Solley,  who  owned  the  mines  up  the  river  and 
the  foundries  that  have  been  empty  and  silent  these 
many  years,  founded  it  in  1840.  At  the  time  I  re- 
member best  the  Institute  had  twenty-one  trustees, 
lady  patronesses,  matrons,  and  nurses;  and  three 
beneficiaries,  or  representatives  of  the  "aged,  but 
not  destitute,  of  Hamilton  County.1'  That  seemed 
odd  to  the  alien. 

Mr.  Solley  need  not  have  been  so  rigid  about  the 
93 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

equipment  and  requirements  of  admission,  except 
that  he  had  in  mind  an  institution  of  dignity.  It 
stood  at  the  head  of  Main  Street,  with  wide  piazzas 
like  a  hotel.  The  aristocracy  of  old  Wimberton  used 
to  meet  there  and  pass  the  summer  afternoons.  The 
young  people  gave  balls  in  the  great  parlors,  and 
the  three  beneficiaries  looked  on,  and  found  nothing 
to  complain  of  in  the  management.  What  matter  if 
it  were  odd?  True  Wimberton  folk  never  called  the 
Institute  a  folly,  but  only  newcomers,  before  years 
of  residence  made  them  endurable  and  able  to  un- 
derstand Wimberton.  Failure  is  a  lady  of  better 
manners  than  Success,  who  is  forward,  complacent, 
taking  herself  with  unpleasant  seriousness.  Imagine 
the  Institute  swarming  with  people  from  all  parts  of 
the  county,  a  staring  success  in  beneficence! 

Mr.  Solley's  idea  was  touched  with  delicacy.  It 
was  not  a  home  for  Hamilton  County  poor,  but  for 
those  who,  merely  lingering  somewhat  on  the  slow 
descent,  found  it  a  lonely  road.  For  there  is  a  pe- 
riod in  life,  of  varying  length,  when,  one's  purposes 
having  failed  or  been  unfulfilled,  the  world  seems 
quite  occupied  by  other  people  who  are  busy  with 
themselves.  Life  belongs  at  any  one  time  to  the 
generation  which  is  making  the  most  of  it.  A 
beneficiary  was  in  a  certain  position  of  respectable 

94 


THE     ROMANCE    OF    THE    INSTITUTE 

humility.  But  I  suppose  it  was  not  so  much  Mr. 
Solley's  discrimination  as  that  in  1840  his  own 
house  was  empty  of  all  but  a  few  servants;  and 
so  out  of  his  sense  of  loneliness  grew  his  idea  of  a 
society  of  the  superannuated.  That  was  the  Solley 
Institute. 

It  is  not  so  difficult  to  recreate  old  Wimberton  of 
seventy  years  back,  for  the  same  houses  stood  on 
Main  Street,  and  the  familiar  names  were  then  heard 
— Solley,  Gore,  Cutting,  Gilbert,  Cass,  Savage.  The 
elms  were  smaller,  with  fewer  lights  under  them  at 
night,  and  gravel  paths  instead  of  asphalt. 

One  may  even  call  up  those  who  peopled  the 
street,  whom  time  has  disguised  or  hidden  away 
completely.  Lucia  Gore  has  dimples, — instead  of 
those  faded  cheeks  one  remembers  at  the  Institute, 
— and  quick  movements,  and  a  bewildering  pretti- 
ness,  in  spite  of  the  skirts  that  made  women  look 
like  decanters  or  tea-bells  in  1830.  She  is  coming 
down  the  gravel  sidewalk  with  a  swift  step,  a  sin- 
gular fire  and  eagerness  of  manner,  more  than  one 
would  suppose  Miss  Lucia  to  have  once  possessed. 

And  there  is  the  elder  Solley,  already  with  that 
worn,  wintry  old  face  we  know  from  his  portrait  at 
the  Institute,  and  John  Solley,  the  son,  both  with 
high-rolled  collars,  tall  hats,  and  stiff  cravats.  Wo- 

95 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

men  said  that  John  Solley  was  reckless,  but  one  only 
notices  that  he  is  very  tall. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  are  in  a  hurry,  too,  my 
dear.  We  might  hurry  up  the  wedding  among  us 
all,"  says  the  elder  Solley,  with  a  grim  smile  and 
a  bow.  "Ha!  Glad  to  see  you  in  a  hurry;"  and  he 
passes  on,  leaving  the  two  together.  Lucia  flushes 
and  seems  to  object. 

Is  not  that  Mrs.  Andrew  Cutting  in  the  front 
window  of  the  gabled  house  directly  behind  them? 
Then  she  is  thinking  how  considerate  it  is,  how 
respectful  to  Main  Street,  that  John  and  Lucia  are 
to  marry. 

The  past  springs  up  quickly,  even  to  little  details. 
Mrs.  Cutting  wears  a  morning  cap,  has  one  finger 
on  her  cheek,  and  is  wondering  why  John  looks 
amused  and  Lucia  in  a  temper.  "He  will  have  to 
behave  himself,"  thinks  Mrs.  Cutting.  "Lucia  is — 
dear  me,  Lucia  is  very  decided.  I  don't  really  know 
that  John  likes  to  behave  himself."  And  all  these 
people  of  1830  are  clearly  interested  in  their  own 
affairs,  and  care  little  for  those  who  will  look  back 
at  them,  seventy  years  away. 

Love  climbs  trees  in  the  Hesperides,  day  in  and 
out,  very  busy  with  their  remarkable  fruit,  the 

96 


THE     ROMANCE    OF    THE    INSTITUTE 

dragon  lying  beneath  with  indifferent  jaws.  Do  we 
observe  how  recklessly  the  young  man  reaches  out, 
and  how  slightly  he  knows  the  nature  of  his  foot- 
ing? The  branches  of  such  apple  trees  as  bear 
golden  fruit  are  notoriously  brittle.  He  might  drop 
into  the  lazy  throat  of  Fate  by  as  easy  an  accident 
as  the  observer  into  figures  of  speech,  and  the  dragon 
care  little  about  the  matter.  That  indifference  of 
Fate  is  hard,  for  it  seems  an  expense  for  no  value 
received  by  any  one.  We  are  advised  to  be  as  little 
melancholy  as  possible,  and  charge  it  to  profit  and 
loss. 

It  is  well  known  that  John  Solley  left  Wimberton 
late  one  night  in  October,  1830.  In  the  morning  the 
two  big  stuccoed  houses  of  Gore  and  Solley  looked 
at  each  other  across  the  street  under  the  yellow  arch 
of  leaves  with  that  mysterious  expression  which  they 
ever  after  seemed  to  possess  to  the  dwellers  on  Main 
Street.  And  the  Gores'  housemaid  picked  up  a  glit- 
tering something  from  the  fell  of  the  bearskin  rug 
on  the  parlor  floor. 

"Land!  It's  Miss  Lucia's  engagement  ring.  She's 
a  careless  girl !"  Hannah  was  a  single  woman  of  fifty, 
and  spoke  with  strong  moral  indignation. 

Some  mornings  later  Mr.  Solley  came  stiffly  down 
liis  front  steps,  crossed  the  street  under  the  yel- 

97 


THE     DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

low  elms,  and  went  in  between  the  white  pillars  of 
the  Gore  house.  Mr.  Gore  was  a  middle-aged  man, 
chubby,  benevolent,  gray -haired,  deliberate.  He  sank 
back  in  his  easy-chair  in  fat  astonishment. 

"Oh,  dear  me!  I  don't  know.11 

Lucia  was  called. 

"Mr.  Solley  wishes  to  ask  you — a — something." 

"I  wish  to  ask  if  my  son  has  treated  you  badly," 
said  Mr.  Solley,  most  absurdly. 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Solley." 

Lucia's  eyes  were  suddenly  hot  and  shining. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  if  John  is  a  scoundrel, 
you  will  do  me  a  favor  by  telling  me  so." 

"Where  is  he?  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"I  am  about  to  write  to  my  son." 

"And  that's  nothing  to  me,"  she  cried,  and  went 
swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he's  only  a  fool,"  said  Mr.  Solley, 
grimly.  "I  knew  that.  Spirited  girl,  Gore,  very. 
Good  morning." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Mr.  Gore,  mildly,  rubbing  his 
glasses.  "How  quickly  they  do  things!" 

Elderly  gentlemen  whose  wives  are  dead  and  chil- 
dren adventuring  in  the  Hesperides  should  take  ad- 
vice. Mrs.  Cutting  might  have  advised  against  this 
paragraph  in  Mr.  Solley's  letter: 

98 


THE    ROMANCE    OF    THE    INSTITUTE 

"I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  inquire  whether  you 
have  been  acting  as  a  gentleman  should.  Inasmuch 
as  Miss  Lucia  seemed  to  imply  that  the  matter  no 
longer  interests  her,  I  presume  she  has  followed  her 
own  will,  which  is  certainly  a  woman's  right.  With 
respect  to  the  Michigan  lands,  I  inclose  surveys. 
You  will  do  well,"  etc. 

But  Mr.  Solley  had  not  for  many  years  thought 
of  the  Hesperides  as  a  more  difficult  piece  of  prop- 
erty to  survey  than  another.  Men  and  women  fol- 
lowed their  own  wills  there  as  elsewhere,  and  were 
quite  right,  so  long  as  they  did  business  honorably. 
And  Mr.  Gore  had  been  a  managed  and  advised 
man  all  his  wedded  life,  and  had  not  found  that  it 
increased  his  happiness.  That  advice  had  always 
tended  to  embark  him  on  some  enterprise  that  was 
fatiguing. 

"A  good  woman,  Letitia,11  often  ran  Mr.  Gore's 
reflections;  and  then,  with  a  sense  of  furtiveness, 
as  if  Letitia  somewhere  in  the  spiritual  universe 
might  overhear  his  thought,  "a  little  masterful — a 
— spirited,  very." 

But  it  was  hard  for  Wimberton  people  to  have  a 
secret  shut  up  among  them.  It  was  not  respectful  to 
Main  Street,  with  John  Solley  fleeing  mysteriously 
in  the  night  and  coming  no  more  to  Wimberton, 

99 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

and  Lucia  going  about  with  her  nose  in  the  air, 
impossible  to  sympathize  with.  Some  months  passed, 
and  Lucia  seemed  more  subdued,  then  very  quiet 
indeed,  with  a  liking  to  sit  by  her  father's  side,  to 
Mr.  Gore's  slight  uneasiness.  She  might  wish  him 
to  do  something. 

He  knew  no  more  than  Wimberton  what  had  hap- 
pened to  send  John  westward  and  Lucia  to  sitting 
beside  him  in  unused  silence;  but  he  differed  from 
Wimberton  in  thinking  it  perhaps  not  desirable  to 
know.  He  would  pat  her  hand  furtively,  and  polish 
his  glasses,  without  seeming  to  alter  the  situation. 
Once  he  asked  timidly  if  it  were  not  dull  for  her. 

"No,  father." 

"I  Ve  thought  sometimes — sometimes — a — I  don't 
remember  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

Lucia's  head  went  down  till  it  almost  rested  on 
his  knee. 

"Father — do  you  know — where  John  is?" 

"Why — a — of  course,  Mr.  Solley — " 

"No,  no,  father!  No!" 

"Well,  I  might  inquire  around — a — somewhere." 

"No!  Oh,  promise  me  you  won't  ask  any  one! 
Promise!" 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gore,  very  much 
confused. 

100 


THE     ROMANCE     OF    THE    INSTITUTE 

"It  is  no  matter,"  said  Lucia,  eagerly. 

Mr.  Gore  thought  for  several  minutes,  but  no 
idea  seemed  to  occur  to  him,  and  it  relieved  him 
to  give  it  up. 

Months  have  a  way  of  making  years  by  a  rapid 
arithmetic,  and  years  that  greet  us  with  such  little 
variety  of  expression  are  the  more  apt  to  step  be- 
hind with  faint  reproach  and  very  swiftly.  Mr.  Solley 
founded  the  Institute  in  1840,  and  died.  The  Solley 
house  stood  empty,  and  Miss  Lucia  Gore  by  that 
time  was  living  alone,  except  for  the  elderly  maiden, 
Hannah.  Looking  at  the  old  elms  of  Wimberton, 
grave  and  orderly,  there  is  much  to  be  said  for  a 
vegetable  life.  There  is  no  right  dignity  but  in  the 
slow  growths  of  time. 

The  elms  increased  their  girth;  the  railway  crept 
up  the  river;  the  young  men  went  to  Southern  bat- 
tle-fields, and  some  of  them  returned;  children  of  a 
second  generation  walked  in  the  Hesperides;  the 
Institute  was  reduced  to  three  beneficiaries;  Main 
Street  smelled  of  tar  from  the  asphalt  sidewalks; 
Chester  Street  was  prosperous.  Banks  failed  in  "73, 
and  "Miss  Lucia  has  lost  everything,""  said  Wim- 
berton gossip. 

The  Solley  house  was  alternately  rented  and 
empty,  the  Gore  house  was  sold,  Miss  Lucia  went 
101 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

up  to  the  Institute,  and  gossip  in  Wimberton  Avoke 
again. 

"Of  course  the  Institute  is  not  like  other  places, 
but  then — " 

"Miss  Lucia  was  such  a  lady."" 

"But  it's  a  charity,  after  all." 

"Very  sensible  of  Miss  Lucia,  I'm  sure." 

"She  was  engaged  to  old  Institute  Solley's  son 
once,  but  it  ended  with  a  bump." 

"Then  Miss  Lucia  goes  to  the  Institute  who 
might  have  gone  to  the  Solley  house." 

"Oh,  that  is  what  one  doesn't  know." 

"Miss  Lucia  a  beneficiary!  But  isn't  that  rather 
embarrassing  ?" 

"I  wonder  if  she — " 

"My  dear,  it  was  centuries  ago.  One  does  n't  think 
of  love-affairs  fifty  years  old.  They  dry  up." 

"Respectable,  and  you  pay  a  little." 

"But  a  charity  really." 

That  year  the  public  library  was  built  on  Main 
and  Gilbert  Streets,  the  great  elm  fell  down  in  the 
Institute  yard,  Mrs.  Andrew  Cutting  died  at  ninety- 
eight,  with  good  sense  and  composure,  and  here  is 
a  letter  written  by  Miss  Lucia  to  Babbie  Cutting. 
Babbie  Cutting,  I  remember,  had  eyes  like  a  last- 
century  romance,  never  fancy-free,  and  her  dolls 
102 


THE     ROMANCE    OF    THE     INSTITUTE 

loved  and  were  melancholy,  when  we  were  children 
together  under  the  elms  in  Wimberton.  The  let- 
ter is  written  in  thin,  flowing  lines  on  lavender 
paper. 

MY  DEAR  CHILD:  I  am  afraid  you  thought  that 
your  question  offended  me,  but  it  did  not,  indeed. 
I  was  engaged  to  Mr.  John  Solley  many  years  ago.  I 
think  I  had  a  very  hasty  temper  then,  which  I  think 
has  quite  wasted  away  now,  for  I  have  been  so  much 
alone.  But  then  I  sometimes  fell  into  dreadful  rages. 
Mr.  Solley  was  a  very  bold  man,  not  easily  influenced 
or  troubled,  who  laughed  at  my  little  faults  and 
whims  more  than  I  thought  he  should. 

You  seemed  to  ask  what  sudden  and  mysterious 
thing  happened  to  us,  but,  my  dear,  one's  life  is 
chiefly  moved  by  trifles  and  little  accidents  and 
whims.  Mr.  Solley  came  one  night,  and  I  fancied 
he  had  been  neglecting  me,  for  I  was  very  proud, 
more  so  than  ordinary  life  permits  women  to  be. 
I  remember  that  he  stood  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  smiling.  He  looked  so  easy  and  strong,  so  im- 
possible to  disturb,  and  said,  "You're  such  a  little 
spitfire,  Lucia,""  and  I  was  so  angry,  it  was  like  hot 
flames  all  through  my  head. 

I  cried,  "How  dare  you  speak  to  me  so!" 
103 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  and  laughed.  "It  seems 
perilous." 

I  tore  his  ring  from  my  finger  and  threw  it  in 
his  face.  It  struck  his  forehead  and  fell  to  the  floor 
without  any  sound.  There  was  a  tiny  red  cut  on  his 
forehead. 

"That  is  your  engagement  ring,"  he  said. 

"Take  it  away.  I  want  nothing  more  to  do  with 
you,"  I  cried — very  foolishly,  for  I  did,  and  my 
anger  was  going  off  in  fright.  He  turned  around  and 
went  from  the  house.  The  maid  found  the  ring  in 
the  morning.  Mr.  Solley  had  left  Wimberton  that 
night.  Well,  my  dear,  that  is  all.  I  thought  he  would 
have  come  back.  It  seemed  as  if  he  might.  I  am  so 
old  now  that  I  do  not  mind  talking,  but  I  was 
proud  then,  and  women  are  not  permitted  to  be 
very  proud.  Do  your  romances  tell  you  that  women 
are  foolish  and  men  are  sometimes  hard  on  them? 

That  is  not  good  romance  at  all,  but  if  you  will 
come  to  see  me  again  I  will  tell  you  much  better 
romances  than  mine  that  I  have  heard,  for  other 
people's  lives  are  interesting,  even  if  mine  has  been 
quite  dull. 

Will  you  put  this  letter  away  to  remember  me 
by?  But  do  not  think  of  me  as  a  complaining  old 
woman,  for  I  have  had  a  long  life  of  leisure  and 
104 


THE    ROMANCE     OF    THE    INSTITUTE 

many  friends.  I  do  not  think  any  one  who  really 
cares  for  me  will  do  so  the  less  for  my  living  at  the 
Institute,  and  only  those  we  love  are  of  real  impor- 
tance to  us.  It  is  kind  of  you  to  visit  me. 

YOUR  AFFECTIONATE  FRIEND. 

So  half  a  century  is  put  lightly  aside;  Miss  Lucia 
has  found  it  quite  dull;  and  here  is  the  year  1885, 
when,  as  every  one  knows,  John  Solley  came  back 
to  Wimberton,  a  tall  old  man  with  a  white  mus- 
tache, heavy  brows,  and  deep  eyes.  Men  thought  it 
an  honor  to  the  town  that  the  great  and  rich  Mr. 
Solley,  so  dignified  a  man,  should  return  to  spend 
his  last  days  in  Wimberton.  He  would  be  its  orna- 
mental citizen,  the  proper  leader  of  its  aristocracy. 
But  Babbie  Cutting  thought  of  another  function. 
What  matter  for  the  melancholy  waste  of  years, 
fifty  leagues  across?  Love  should  walk  over  it  tri- 
umphant, unwearied,  and  find  a  fairer  romance  at 
the  end.  Were  there  not  written  in  the  books  words 
to  that  effect?  Babbie  moved  in  a  world  of  dreams, 
where  knights  were  ever  coming  home  from  distant 
places,  or,  at  least,  where  every  one  found  happiness 
after  great  trouble.  She  looked  up  into  Mr.  Solley's 
eyes  and  thought  them  romantic  to  a  degree.  When 
she  heard  he  had  never  married  the  thing  seemed 
105 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

as  good  as  proved.  And  the  little  old  lady  at  the 
Institute  with  the  old-fashioned  rolled  curls  above 
her  ears — what  a  sequel! 

It  was  a  white  winter  day.  The  elms  looked  so 
cold  against  the  sky  that  it  was  difficult  to  remem- 
ber they  had  ever  been  green,  or  believe  it  was  in 
them  to  put  forth  leaves  once  more.  The  wind  drove 
the  sharp-edged  particles  of  snow  directly  in  Babbie's 
face,  and  she  put  her  head  down,  covering  her  mouth 
with  her  furs.  She  turned  in  at  the  Solley  house,  and 
found  herself  in  the  drawing-room,  facing  that  tall, 
thin,  military-looking  old  man,  and  feeling  out  of 
breath  and  troubled  what  to  do  first.  But  Mr.  Solley 
was  not  a  man  to  let  any  girl  whatever  be  ill  at  ease, 
and  surely  not  one  with  cheeks  and  eyes  and  soft 
hair  like  Babbie  Cutting.  Presently  they  were  ex- 
perienced friends.  Babbie  sat  in  Mr.  Solley's  great 
chair  and  stretched  her  hands  toward  the  fire.  Mr. 
Solley  was  persuaded  to  take  up  his  cigar  again. 

"I  had  not  dared  to  hope,"  he  said,  "that  my 
native  place  would  welcome  me  so  charmingly.  I 
have  made  so  many  new  friends,  or  rather  they 
seemed  to  be  friends  already,  though  unknown  to 
me,  that  I  seem  to  begin  life  again.  I  seem  to  start 
it  all  over.  I  should  have  returned  sooner. " 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you  should  have,"  said  Babbie, 
106 


THE     ROMANCE    OF    THE     INSTITUTE 

eagerly.  "And  do  you  know  who  is  living  at  the  In- 
stitute now?" 

"The  Institute?  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  Insti- 
tute, and  I  am  a  trustee,  which  is  very  neglectful  of 
duty.  Who  is  living  at  the  Institute  now?" 

"Miss  Lucia  Gore." 

Mr.  Solley  was  silent,  and  looked  at  Babbie  oddly 
under  his  white  eyebrows,  so  that  her  cheeks  began 
to  bum,  and  she  was  not  a  little  frightened,  though 
quite  determined  and  eager. 

"Miss  Lucia  lost  all  her  money  when  the  banks 
failed,  and  she  sold  the  Gore  house,  and  got  enough 
interest  to  pay  her  dues  and  a  little  more;  but  it 
seems  so  sad  for  Miss  Lucia,  because  people  will  pat- 
ronize her,  not  meaning  to.  But  they  're  so  stupid — 
or,  at  least,  it  doesn't  seem  like  Miss  Lucia." 

"I  did  not  know  she  was  living,"  said  Mr.  Solley, 
quietly. 

"Oh,  how  could  you — be  that  way!" 

Mr.  Solley  looked  steadily  at  Babbie,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  her  face  gave  him  a  clue  to 
something  that  he  had  groped  for  in  the  darkness  of 
late,  as  if  some  white  mist  were  lifted  from  the  river 
and  he  could  see  up  its  vistas  and  smoky  cataracts. 
How  could  he  be  that  way?  It  is  every  man's  most 
personal  and  most  unsolved  enigma — how  he  came 
107 


THE     DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

to  be  that  way,  to  be  possible  as  he  is.  Up  the  river 
he  saw  a  face  somewhat  like  Babbie's,  somewhat 
more  imperious,  but  with  the  same  pathetic  eager- 
ness and  desire  for  abundance  of  life.  How  could 
young  John  Solley  become  old  John  Solley?  Look- 
ing into  Babbie^s  eyes,  he  seemed  able  to  put  the 
two  men  side  by  side. 

"At  one  time,  Miss  Barbara,"  he  said,  " — you 
will  forgive  my  saying  so, — I  should  have  resented 
your  reference.  Now  I  am  only  thinking  how  kind 
it  is  of  you  to  forget  that  I  am  old."" 

Babbie  did  not  quite  understand,  and  felt  troubled, 
and  not  sure  of  her  position. 

"Mr.  Solley,"  she  said,  "I — I  have  a  letter  from 
Miss  Lucia.  Do  you  think  I  might  show  it  to  you?" 

"It  concerns  me?" 

"Y-yes." 

He  walked  down  the  room  and  back  again. 

"I  don't  know  that  you  ought,  but  you  have 
tempted  me  to  wish  that  you  would.  Thank  you." 

He  put  on  his  glasses  and  read  it  slowly.  Babbie 
thought  he  read  it  like  a  business  letter. 

"He  ought  to  turn  pale  or  red,"  she  thought. 
"Oh,  he  oughtn't  to  wear  his  spectacles  on  the 
end  of  his  nose!" 

Mr.  Solley  handed  back  the  letter. 
108 


THE     ROMANCE    OF    THE     INSTITUTE 

" Thank  you,  Miss  Barbara,"  he  said,  and  began 
to  talk  of  her  great-grandmother  Cutting. 

Babbie  blinked  back  her  sudden  tears.  It  was 
very  different  from  a  romance,  where  the  pages 
will  always  turn  and  tell  you  the  story  willingly, 
where  the  hero  always  shows  you  exactly  how  he 
feels.  She  thought  she  would  like  to  cry  somewhere 
else.  She  stood  up  to  go. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  so  silly,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
gulp  and  trying  to  be  dignified. 

Mr.  Solley  looked  amused,  so  far  as  that  the 
wrinkles  deepened  about  his  eyes. 

"Will  you  be  a  friend  of  mine?1'  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Babbie,  plaintively,  but  she  did  not 
think  she  would.  How  could  she,  and  he  so  cold, 
so  prosaic!  She  went  out  into  the  snow,  which  was 
driving  down  Main  Street  from  the  Institute.  It 
was  four  by  the  town  clock. 

They  said  in  Wimberton  that  Mr.  Solley  left  his 
house  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  that 
Stephen,  the  gardener,  held  an  umbrella  in  front  of 
him  to  keep  off  the  storm  all  the  way  up  the  hill 
to  the  Institute.  And  they  said,  too,  that  the  lights 
were  left  burning  in  the  Solley  house,  and  the  fire 
on  the  hearth,  and  that  the  book  he  was  reading 
when  Babbie  went  in  lay  open  on  the  table.  The 
109 


THE  DELECTABLE  MOUNTAINS 

fire  burned  itself  out.  Stephen  came  in  late,  closed 
the  book,  and  put  out  the  lights,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing went  about  town  saying  that  Mr.  Solley  was  to 
enter  the  Institute  as  a  beneficiary. 

But  it  is  a  secret  that  on  that  snowy  evening 
Mr.  Solley  and  Miss  Lucia  sat  in  the  great  east 
parlor  of  the  Institute,  with  a  lamp  near  by,  but 
darkness  in  all  the  distances  about  them.  His  hands 
were  on  his  gold-headed  cane;  Miss  Lucia's  rolls  of 
white  curls  were  very  tidy  over  her  ears,  and  her 
fingers  were  knitting  something  placidly.  She  was 
saying  it  was  "quite  impossible.  One  doesn't  want 
to  be  absurd  at  seventy-five." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Mr.  Solley.  "I  shouldn't 
mind  it.  What  do  you  think  of  the  other  plan?" 

"If  you  want  my  permission  to  be  a  beneficiary," 
said  Miss  Lucia,  with  her  eyes  twinkling,  "I  think 
it  would  be  a  proper  humiliation  for  you.  I  think 
you  deserve  it." 

"It  would  be  no  humiliation." 

"It  was  for  me — some." 

"It  shall  be  so  no  more.  I'll  make  them  wish 
they  were  all  old  enough  to  do  the  same — hem — 
confound  them!" 

"Did  you  think  of  it  that  way,  John?" 

Mr.  Solley  was  silent  for  some  moments. 
110 


THE     ROMANCE     OF    THE     INSTITUTE 

"Do  you  know,  I  have  been  a  busy  man,"  he 
said  at  last,  "but  there  was  nothing  in  it  all  that 
I  care  to  think  over  now.  And  to-day,  for  the  first 
time,  that  seemed  to  me  strange.  It  was  shown  to 
me — that  is,  I  saw  it  was  strange.  We  have  only  a 
few  years  left,  and  you  will  let  me  be  somewhat 
near  you  while  they  pass.  Isn't  that  enough?  It 
seems  a  little  vague.  Well,  then,  yes.  I  thought  of 
it  that  way,  as  you  say.  Do  you  mind  my  thinking 
of  it  that  way?" 

Miss  Lucia's  eyes  grew  a  little  tearful,  but  she 
managed  to  hide  it  by  settling  her  glasses.  Seventy- 
five  years  in  a  small  town  make  the  opinions  of 
one's  neighbors  part  of  the  structure  of  existence. 
It  was  bitter,  the  thought  that  Main  Street  tacitly 
patronized  her. 

"Why,  no,  I  don't  mind." 

She  dropped  her  knitting  and  laughed  suddenly. 

"I  think,  John,"  she  said,  "that  I  missed  marry- 
ing a  very  nice  man." 

Mr.  Solley's  glasses  fell  off  with  surprise.  He  put 
them  on  again  and  chuckled  to  himself. 

"My  father  used  to  call  me  a — hem — a  fool.  He 
used  to  state  things  more  accurately  than  you  did." 

After  all,  there  was  no  other  institute  like  Wim- 
111 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

berton's.  The  standards  of  other  places  were  no 
measure  for  our  conduct,  and  the  fact  that  such 
things  were  not  seen  elsewhere  was  a  flattering  rea- 
son why  they  should  be  seen  in  Wimberton ;  namely, 
only  five  beneficiaries,  and  one  of  them  a  rich  man 
and  a  trustee.  It  was  singular,  but  it  suited  Wim- 
berton to  be  singular.  One  thing  was  plain  to  all, 
that  if  Mr.  Solley  was  a  beneficiary,  then  to  be  a 
beneficiary  was  a  dignified,  well-bred,  and  suitable 
thing.  But  one  thing  was  not  plain  to  all,  why  he 
chose  to  be  a  beneficiary.  Babbie  Cutting  went  up 
to  the  Institute,  and  coming  back,  wept  for  pure 
sentiment  in  her  white-curtained  room,  with  the 
picture  on  the  wall  of  Sir  Lancelot  riding  down  by 
the  whirling  river,  the  island,  and  the  gray-walled 
castle  of  Shalott. 

I  remember  well  the  great  ball  and  reception 
that  Mr.  Solley  gave  at  the  Institute  to  celebrate 
his  entry,  and  how  we  all  paid  our  respects  to  the 
five  beneficiaries,  four  old  men,  who  were  gracious, 
but  patronizing, — one  with  gold  eye-glasses  and 
gold-headed  cane, — and  Miss  Lucia,  with  the  rolled 
curls  over  her  ears.  The  Institute,  from  that  time 
on,  looked  down  on  Main  Street  with  a  different 
air,  and  never  lost  its  advantage.  It  seemed  to  many 
that  the  second  Solley  had  refounded  it  for  one  of 
112 


THE    ROMANCE     OF    THE    INSTITUTE 

those  whims  that  are  ornamental  in  the  rich.  Bab- 
bie Cutting  said  to  her  heart,  "He  refounded  it  for 
Miss  Lucia.'1 

There  was  nowhere  in  Wimberton  such  dignified 
society  as  at  the  Institute.  Even  so  that  the  last 
visitor  of  all  seemed  only  to  come  by  invitation, 
and  to  pay  his  respects  with  proper  ceremony: 

"Sir,  or  madam,  I  hope  it  is  not  an  inconvenient 
time,'1  or  similar  phrase. 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  It  seems  very  dark  around.11 

"Will  you  take  my  arm?  The  path  is  steep  and 
worn,  and  here  is  a  small  matter  of  a  river,  as  you 
see.  I  regret  that  the  water  is  perhaps  a  trifle  cold. 
Yes,  one  hears  so  much  talk  about  the  other  side 
that  one  hardly  knows  what  to  think.  There  is  no 
hurry.  But  at  this  point  I  say  good  night  and  leave 
you.  When  you  were  young  you  often  heard  good 
night  said  when  the  morning  was  at  hand.  May  it 
be  so.  Good  night.11 


113 


NAUSICAA 


NAUSICAA 


A  HE  Fourteenth  Infantry,  volunteers,  were  mus- 
tered out  on  the  last  day  of  April.  Sandy  Cass  and 
Kid  Sadler  came  that  night  into  the  great  city  of 
the  river  and  the  straits  with  their  heads  full  of 
lurid  visions  which  they  set  about  immediately  to 
realize.  Little  Irish  was  with  them,  and  Bill  Smith, 
who  had  had  other  names  at  other  times.  And 
Sandy  woke  the  next  morning  in  a  room  that  had 
no  furniture  but  a  bed,  a  washstand,  a  cracked  mir- 
ror, and  a  chair.  He  did  not  remember  coming  there. 
Some  one  must  have  put  him  to  bed.  It  was  not  Kid 
Sadler  or  Little  Irish;  they  were  drunk  early,  with 
bad  judgment.  It  must  have  been  Bill  Smith.  A 
hat  with  a  frayed  cord  lay  on  the  floor.  "That's 
Bill's  hat,"  he  said.  "He's  got  mine." 

The  gray  morning  filled  the  window,  and  carts 
rattled  by  in  the  street.  He  rose  and  drank  from 
the  pitcher  to  clear  the  bitterness  from  his  mouth, 
and  saw  himself  in  the  glass,  haggard  and  hollow- 
eyed.  It  was  a  clean-cut  face,  with  straight,  thin  lips, 
straight  eyebrows,  and  brown  hair.  The  lips  were 
white  and  lines  ran  back  from  the  eyes.  Sandy  did 
117 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

not  think   he    looked  a  credit  to    himself. 

"Some  of  it's  yellow  fever,"  he  reflected,  "and 
some  of  it's  jag.  About  half  and  half.  The  squire 
can  charge  it  to  the  yellow." 

He  wondered  what  new  thing  Squire  Cass  would 
find  to  say  to  his  "rascally  nephew,  that  reprobate 
Ulysses."  Squire  Cass  was  a  red-faced  gentleman  and 
substantial  citizen  of  that  calm  New  England  town 
of  Wimberton,  which  Sandy  knew  very  well  and 
did  not  care  for.  It  was  too  calm.  But  it  would  be 
good  for  his  constitution  to  go  there  now.  He  won- 
dered if  his  constitution  would  hold  out  for  another 
night  equally  joyful;  "Maybe  it  might;"  then  how 
much  of  his  eighty  dollars'  back  pay  was  blown  in. 
He  put  on  his  clothes  slowly,  feeling  through  the 
pockets,  collected  two  half-dollars  on  the  way,  came 
to  the  last  and  stopped. 

"Must  have  missed  one;"  and  began  again.  But 
that  crumpled  wad  of  bills  was  gone  altogether. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  an  orphan!" 

He  remembered  last  a  place  with  bright  glass 
chandeliers,  a  gilt  cupid  over  the  bar,  a  girl  in  a 
frowzy  hat,  laughing  with  large  teeth,  and  Kid 
Sadler  singing  that  song  he  had  made  up  and  was 
so  "doggone  stuck  on": 


118 


NAUSICAA 

"Sandy  Cass!  A -alas! 
We'll  be  shut  up 
In  the  lockup 
If  this  here  keeps  on." 
It  got  monotonous,  that  song. 

"Sandy  Cass!  A-alas! 
A  comin  home, 
A  bummin   home — " 

He  liked  to  make  poetry,  Kid  Sadler.  You  would 
not  have  expected  it,  to  look  at  his  sloppy  mustache, 
long  dry  throat,  and  big  hands.  The  poetry  was 
generally  accurate.  Sandy  did  not  see  any  good  in  it, 
unless  it  was  accurate. 

"Little  Irish  is  a  Catholic,  he  come  from  I-er-land; 
He  ain't  a  whole  cathedral,  nor  a  new  brass  band; 
He  got  religion  in  'is  joints  from  the  hoonin  of  a  shell, 
An  'is  auburn  hair's  burned  bricky  red  from  leanin  over 

hell" 

That  was  accurate  enough,  though  put  in  figures 
of  speech,  but  the  Kid  was  still  more  accurate  re- 
garding Bill  Smith: 

"Nobody  knows  who  Bill  Smith  is, 
His  kin  nor  yet  his  kith, 
An  nobody  cares  who  Bill  Smith  is, 
An   neither  does  Bill  Smith;" 

which  was  perfectly  true.  Anyhow  the  Kid  could  not 
119 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

have  taken  the  wad,  nor  Little  Irish.  It  must  have 
been  Bill  Smith. 

"It  was  Bill,"  he  decided. 

He  did  not  make  any  special  comments.  Some 
thing  or  other  happens  to  a  man  every  day.  He 
went  down-stairs,  through  a  dim  narrow  hallway. 

"Hope  there  don't  any  one  want  something  of  me. 
I  don't  believe  they  11  get  it." 

There  were  sounds  in  the  basement,  but  no  one 
met  him.  In  the  street  the  Ninth  Avenue  car  rolled 
by,  a  block  away.  He  saw  a  restaurant  sign  which 
said  fearlessly  that  a  stew  cost  ten  cents,  went  in  and 
breakfasted  for  fifteen,  waited  on  by  a  thin,  weary 
,  woman,  who  looked  at  his  blue  coat  and  braided  hat 
with  half-roused  interest. 

The  cobble-stones  on  Sixth  Avenue  were  shining 
and  wet.  Here  and  there  some  one  in  the  crowd  turned 
to  look  after  him.  It  might  have  been  the  uniform, 
the  loafer's  slouch  of  the  hat,  taken  with  the  face 
being  young  and  too  white. 

The  hands  of  the  station  clock  stood  at  ten.  He 
took  a  ticket  to  the  limit  of  eighty-five  cents,  heard 
dimly  the  name  of  a  familiar  junction;  and  then  the 
rumble  of  the  train  was  under  him  for  an  hour.  Bill 
Smith  had  left  him  his  pipe  and  tobacco.  Bill  had 
good  points.  Sandy  was  inclined  to  think  kindly  of 
120 


NAUSICAA 

Bill's  thoughtfulness,  and  envy  him  his  enterprise. 
The  roar  of  the  car- wheels  sounded  like  Kid  Sadler's 
voice,  hoarse  and  choky,  "A-alas,  a-alas!" 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  at  the  junction.  The  mist  of 
the  earlier  morning  had  become  a  slow  drizzle. 
Trains  jangled  to  and  fro  in  the  freight  yards.  He 
took  a  road  which  led  away  from  the  brick  ware- 
houses, streets  of  shady  trees  and  lawns,  and  curved 
to  the  north,  along  the  bank  of  a  cold,  sleepy  river. 

There  was  an  unpainted,  three-room  house  some- 
where, where  a  fat  woman  said  "Good  land!"  and 
gave  him  a  plate  full  of  different  things,  on  a  table 
covered  with  oil-cloth.  He  could  not  remember  after- 
ward what  he  ate,  or  what  the  woman  said  further. 
He  remembered  the  oil-cloth,  which  had  a  yellow- 
feverish  design  of  curved  lines,  that  twisted  snakily, 
and  came  out  of  the  cloth  and  ran  across  the  plate. 
Then  out  in  the  gray  drizzle  again. 

All  the  morning  his  brain  had  seemed  to  grow 
duller  and  duller,  heavy  and  sodden;  but  in  the 
afternoon  red  lights  began  dancing  in  the  mist.  It 
might  have  been  five  miles  or  twenty  he  had  gone 
by  dusk;  the  distinction  between  miles  and  rods  was 
not  clear — they  both  consisted  of  brown  mud  and 
gray  mist.  Sometimes  it  was  a  mile  across  the  road. 
The  dusk,  and  then  the  dark,  heaved,  and  pulsed 
121 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

through  blood-red  veins,  and  peeled,  and  broke  apart 
in  brilliant  cracks,  as  they  used  to  do  nights  in  the 
field  hospital.  There  seemed  to  be  no  hope  or  desire 
in  him,  except  in  his  feet,  which  moved  on.  The 
lights  that  travelled  with  him  got  mixed  with  lights 
on  each  side  of  a  village  street,  and  his  feet  walked 
in  through  a  gate.  They  had  no  reason  for  it,  except 
that  the  gate  stood  open  and  was  painted  white.  He 
pushed  back  the  door  of  a  little  garden  tool-house 
beside  the  path,  and  lay  down  on  the  floor.  He  could 
not  make  out  which  of  a  number  of  things  were 
happening.  The  Fourteenth  Infantry  appeared  to  be 
bucking  a  steep  hill,  with  the  smoke  rolling  down 
over  it;  but  on  the  other  hand  Kid  Sadler  was  sing- 
ing hoarsely,  but  distinctly,  "A-alas,  a-alas!"  and 
moreover,  a  dim  light  shone  through  a  white- 
curtained  window  somewhere  between  a  rod  and  a 
mile  away,  and  glimmered  down  the  wet  path  by  the 
tool -house.  Some  one  said,  "Some  of  ifs  jag  and 
some  of  it's  the  yellow.  About  half  and  half."  He 
might  have  been  making  the  remark  himself,  except 
that  he  appeared  to  be  elsewhere.  The  rain  kept  up 
a  thin  whisper  on  the  roof  of  the  tool -house.  Gasps, 
shouts,  thumping  of  feet,  clash  of  rifle  and  canteen. 
The  hill  was  as  steep  as  a  wall.  Little  Irish  said, 
"His  legs  was  too  short  to  shtep  on  the  back  av  his 
122 


NAUSICAA 

neck  wid  the  shteepness  av  the  hill."  "A-alas!  A 
comin1  home."  "Oh,  shut  up,  Kid!"  "A-alas,  a-alas!" 
The  dark  was  split  with  red  gashes,  as  it  used  to  be 
in  the  field  hospital.  The  rain  whispered  on  the  roof 
and  the  wet  path  glimmered  like  silk. 

It  was  the  village  of  Zoar,  which  lies  far  back  to 
the  west  of  Wyantenaug  Valley,  among  low  waves  of 
hills,  the  house  the  old  Hare  Place,  and  Miss  Eliza- 
beth Hare  and  Gracia  lived  there  behind  the  white 
gateway. 

That  gateway  had  once  been  an  ancient  arch  over- 
head, with  a  green  wooden  ball  topping  it.  Some  one 
cut  a  face  on  the  ball,  that  leered  into  the  street.  It 
did  not  in  the  least  resemble  Miss  Elizabeth,  whose 
smile  was  gentle  and  cool;  but  it  was  taken  down 
from  its  station  of  half  a  century;  and  Gracia  cried 
secretly,  because  everything  would  needs  be  discon- 
solate without  an  arch  and  a  proper  wooden  ball 
on  top  of  it,  under  which  knights  and  witch  ladies 
might  come  and  go,  riding  and  floating.  It  seemed 
to  break  down  the  old  garden  life.  Odd  flowers 
would  not  hold  conversations  any  more,  tiger-lilies 
and  peonies  bother  each  other,  the  tigers  being  snap- 
pish and  the  peonies  fat,  slow,  and  irritating.  Before 
Gracia's  hair  had  abandoned  yellow  braids  and  be- 
123 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

come  mysterious,  when  she  learned  neat  sewing  and 
cross-stitch,  she  used  to  set  the  tigers  and  peonies 
quarrelling  to  express  her  own  feelings  about  neat 
sewing  and  cross-stitch.  Afterward  she  found  the 
memory  of  that  wickedness  too  heavy,  and  confessed 
it  to  Miss  Elizabeth,  and  added  the  knights  and 
witch  ladies.  Miss  Elizabeth  had  said  nothing,  had 
seemed  disinclined  to  blame,  and,  going  out  into  the 
garden,  had  walked  to  and  fro  restlessly,  stopping 
beside  the  tigers  and  peonies,  and  seeming  to  look 
at  the  arched  gateway  with  a  certain  wistfulness. 

Miss  Elizabeth  had  now  a  dimly  faded  look,  the 
charm  of  a  still  November,  where  now  and  then  an 
Indian  summer  steals  over  the  chill.  She  wore  tiny 
white  caps,  and  her  hair  was  singularly  smooth; 
while  Gracia's  appeared  rather  to  be  blown  back, 
pushed  by  the  delicate  fingers  of  a  breeze,  that  pri- 
vately admired  it,  away  from  her  eager  face,  with  its 
gray-blue  eyes  that  looked  at  you  as  if  they  saw 
something  else  as  well.  It  kept  you  guessing  about 
that  other  thing,  and  you  got  no  further  than  to 
wonder  if  it  were  not  something,  or  some  one,  that 
you  might  be,  or  might  have  been,  if  you  had  begun 
at  it  before  life  had  become  so  labelled  and  defined, 
so  plastered  over  with  maxims. 

The  new  gateway  was  still  a  doubtful  quantity  in 
124 


NAUSICAA 

Gracia's  mind.  It  was  not  justified.  It  had  no  connec- 
tions, no  consecrations;  merely  a  white  gate  against 
the  greenery. 

It  was  the  whiteness  which  caught  Sandy  Cassis 
dulled  eyes,  so  that  he  turned  through,  and  lay 
down  in  the  tool-house,  and  wondered  which  of  a 
number  of  incongruous  things  was  really  happen- 
ing: Little  Irish  crying  plaintively  that  his  legs 
were  too  short — "A-alas,  a-alas!" — or  the  whisper 
of  the  rain  on  the  roof. 

Gracia  lifted  the  white  curtains,  looked  out,  and 
saw  the  wet  path  shining. 

"Is  it  raining,  Gracia?'1 

"It  drizzles  like  anything,  and  the  tool-house  door 
is  open,  and,  oh,  aunty !  the  path  shines  quite  down 
to  the  gate." 

"It  generally  shines  in  the  rain,  dear." 

"Oh!"  said  Gracia,  thoughtfully.  She  seemed  to 
be  examining  a  sudden  idea,  and  began  the  pretence 
of  a  whistle  which  afterward  became  a  true  fact. 

"I  wish  it  wouldn't  be  generally,  don't  you?  I 
wish  things  would  all  be  specially." 

"I  wouldn't  wi — I  wouldn't  whistle,  if  I  were 
you,"  said  Miss  Elizabeth,  gently. 

"Oh!"  Gracia  came  suddenly  with  a  ripple  and 
coo  of  laughter,  and  dropped  on  her  knees  by  Miss 
125 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

Elizabeth.  "You  couldn't,  you  poor  aunty,  if  you 
tried.  You  never  learned,  did  you?" 

Miss  Elizabeth  hesitated. 

"I  once  tried  to  learn — of  your  father.  I  used  to 
think  it  sounded  cheerful.  But  my  mother  would  n't 
allow  it.  What  I  really  started  to  say  was,  that  I 
wouldn't,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  wish  so  many 
things  to  be  other  than  they  are.  I  used  to  wish  for 
things  to  be  different,  and  then,  you  know,  when 
they  stay  quite  the  same,  it's  such  a  number  of 
troubles." 

Gracia  clasped  her  fingers  about  one  knee,  studied 
the  neatly  built  fire  and  the  blue  and  white  tiles 
over  it,  and  thought  hard  on  the  subject  of  wishes. 
She  thought  that  she  had  not  wished  things  to  be 
different,  so  much  as  to  remain  the  same  as  of  old, 
when  one  wore  yellow  braids,  and  could  whistle  with 
approval,  and  everything  happened  specially.  Because 
it  is  sad  when  you  begin  to  suspect  that  the  sun  and 
moon  and  the  growths  of  spring  do  not  care  about 
you,  but  only  act  according  to  habits  they  have 
fallen  into,  and  that  the  shining  paths,  which  seem 
to  lead  from  beyond  the  night,  are  common  or 
accidental  and  not  meant  specially.  The  elder  ro- 
mancers and  the  latest  seers  do  insist  together  that 
they  are,  that  such  highways  indeed  as  the  moon 
126 


NAUSICAA 

lays  on  the  water  are  translunary  and  come  with 
purposes  from  a  celestial  city.  The  romancers  have  a 
simple  faith,  and  the  seers  an  ingenious  theory  about 
it.  But  the  days  and  weeks  argue  differently.  They 
had  begun  to  trouble  the  fealty  that  Gracia  held 
of  romance,  and  she  had  not  met  with  the  theory  of 
the  seers. 

Sandy  Cass  went  through  experiences  that  night 
which  cannot  be  written,  for  there  was  no  sequence 
in  them,  and  they  were  translunary  and  sub-earthly; 
some  of  them  broken  fragments  of  his  life  thrown 
up  at  him  out  of  a  kind  of  smoky  red  pit,  very  much 
as  it  used  to  be  in  the  field  hospital.  His  life  seemed 
to  fall  easily  into  fragments.  There  had  not  been 
much  sequence  in  it,  since  he  began  running  away 
from  the  house  of  the  squire  at  fifteen.  It  had 
ranged  between  the  back  and  front  doors  of  the 
social  structure  these  ten  years.  The  squire  used  to 
storm,  because  it  came  natural  to  him  to  speak  vio- 
lently; but  privately  he  thought  Sandy  no  more 
than  his  own  younger  self,  let  loose  instead  of  tied 
down.  He  even  envied  Sandy.  He  wished  he  would 
come  oftener  to  entertain  him.  Sandy  was  a  period- 
ical novel  continued  in  the  next  issue,  an  irregular 
and  barbarous  Odyssey,  in  which  the  squire,  compar- 
ing with  his  Pope^s  translation,  recognized  Scylla 
127 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

and  Charybdis,  Cyclops  and  Circe,  and  the  interfer- 
ence of  the  quarrelling  gods.  But  that  night  the 
story  went  through  the  Land  of  Shadows  and  Red 
Dreams.  Sandy  came  at  last  to  the  further  edge  of 
the  Land;  beyond  was  the  Desert  of  Dreamless 
Sleep;  and  then  something  white  and  waving  was 
before  his  eyes,  and  beyond  was  a  pale  green  shim- 
mer. He  heard  a  gruff  voice : 

"Hm — Constitution,  Miss  Hare.  That  chap  had 
a  solid  ancestry.  He  ought  to  have  had  a  relapse  and 
died,  and  he  11  be  out  in  a  week.11 

Another  voice  said  in  an  awed  whisper: 

"He'k  like  my  Saint  George!11 

"Hm — Legendary?  This  St.  G.  looks  as  if  he^l 
made  up  with  his  devil.  Looks  as  if  they'd  been 
tolerably  good  friends.11 

A  third  voice  remonstrated: 

"Doctor!11 

"Hm,  hm — My  nonsense,  Miss  Gracia,  my  non- 
sense.11 

The  two  ladies  and  the  doctor  went  out. 

It  was  a  long,  low  room,  white,  fragrant,  and 
fresh.  Soft  white  curtains  waved  in  open  windows, 
and  outside  the  late  sunlight  drifted  shyly  through 
the  pale  green  leaves  of  young  maples.  There  were 
dainty  things  about,  touches  of  silk  and  lace,  blue 
128 


NAUSICAA 

and  white  china  on  bureau  and  dressing-table,  a 
mirror  framed  with  gilded  pillars  at  the  sides  and 
a  painted  Arcadia  above. 

"Well,  if  I  ain't  an  orphan!""  grumbled  Sandy, 
feebly. 

An  elderly  woman  with  a  checked  apron  brought 
him  soup  in  a  bowl.  She  was  quite  silent  and  soon 
went  out. 

"It's  pretty  slick,"  he  thought,  -  looking  around. 
"I  could  n't  have  done  better  if  I  'd  been  a  widow." 

The  drifting  quiet  of  the  days  that  Sandy  lay 
there  pleased  him  for  the  time.  It  felt  like  a  cool 
poultice  on  a  wound.  The  purity  and  fragility  of 
objects  was  interesting  to  look  at,  so  long  as  he  lay 
still  and  did  not  move  about  among  them.  But  he 
wondered  how  people  could  live  there  right  along. 
They  must  keep  everything  at  a  distance,  with  a 
feather-duster  between.  He  had  an  impression  that 
china  things  always  broke,  and  white  things  became 
dirty.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be 
some  whose  nature,  without  any  worry  to  them- 
selves, was  to  keep  things  clean  and  not  to  knock 
them  over,  to  touch  things  in  a  feathery  manner,  so 
that  they  did  not  have  to  stay  behind  a  duster.  This 
subject  of  speculation  lasted  him  a  day  or  two,  and 
129 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

Miss  Elizabeth  and  Gracia  began  to  interest  him  as 
beings  with  that  special  gift.  He  admired  any  kind 
of  capability.  Miss  Elizabeth  he  saw  often,  the  wo- 
man in  the  checked  apron  till  he  was  tired  of  her. 
But  Gracia  was  only  now  and  then  a  desirable  and 
fleeting  appearance  in  the  doorway,  saying: 

"Good  morning,  Saint  George." 

She  never  stayed  to  tell  him  why  "Saint  George." 
It  came  to  the  point  that  the  notion  of  her  yellow 
hair  would  stay  by  him  an  hour  or  more  afterward. 
He  began  to  wake  from  his  dozes,  fancying  he  heard 
"  Good  morning,  Saint  George,"  and  finally  to  watch 
the  doorway  and  fidget. 

"This  lying  abed,"  he  concluded,  "is  played  out." 

He  got  up  and  hunted  about  for  his  clothes.  His 
knees  and  fingers  trembled.  The  clothes  hung  in 
the  closet,  cleaned  and  pressed,  in  the  extraordinary 
neighborhood  of  a  white  muslin  dress.  Sandy  sat 
down  heavily  on  the  bed.  Things  seemed  to  be  whiz- 
zing and  whimpering  all  about  him.  He  waited  for 
them  to  settle,  and  pulled  on  his  clothes  gradually. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  thought  he  might  pass  on 
parade,  and  crept  out  into  the  hall  and  down  the 
stairs.  The  sunlight  was  warm  in  the  garden  and 
on  the  porch,  and  pale  green  among  the  leaves. 
Gracia  sat  against  a  pillar,  clasping  one  knee.  Miss 
130 


NAUSICAA 

Elizabeth  sewed;  her  work-basket  was  fitted  up  in- 
side on  an  intricate  system.  Gracia  hailed  him  with 
enthusiasm,  and  Miss  Elizabeth  remonstrated.  He 
looked  past  Miss  Elizabeth  to  find  the  yellow  hair. 
"This  lying  abed,"  he  said  feebly,  "is  played  out." 
Sitting  in  the  sunlight,  Sandy  told  his  story  grad- 
ually from  day  to  day.  It  was  all  his  story,  being 
made  up  of  selections.  He  was  skilful  from  practice 
on  the  squire,  but  he  saw  the  need  of  a  new  principle 
of  selection  and  combination.  His  style  of  narrative 
was  his  own.  It  possessed  gravity,  candor,  simplicity, 
an  assumption  that  nothing  could  be  unreasonable 
or  surprising  which  came  in  the  course  of  events, 
that  all  things  and  all  men  were  acceptable.  Gracia 
thought  that  simplicity  beautiful,  that  his  speech 
was  like  the  speech  of  Tanneguy  du  Bois,  and  that 
he  looked  like  Saint  George  in  the  picture  which 
hung  in  her  room — a  pale  young  warrior,  such  as 
painters  once  loved  to  draw,  putting  in  those  keen 
faces  a  peculiar  manhood,  tempered  and  edged  like  a 
sword.  Sandy  looked  oddly  like  him,  in  the  straight 
lines  of  brow  and  mouth.  Saint  George  is  taking  a 
swift  easy  stride  over  the  dead  dragon,  a  kind  of 
level-eyed  daring  and  grave  inquiry  in  his  face,  as 
if  it  were  Sandy  himself,  about  to  say,  "You  don't 
happen  to  have  another  dragon?  This  one  wasn't 
131 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

real  gamy.  I'd  rather  have  an  average  alligator." 
She  laughed  with  ripples  and  coos,  and  struggled 
with  lumps  in  her  throat,  when  Sandy  through  sim- 
plicity fell  into  pathos.  It  bewildered  her  that  the 
funny  things  and  pathetic  things  were  so  mixed  up 
and  run  together,  and  that  he  seemed  to  take  no 
notice  of  either  of  them.  But  she  grew  stern  and 
indignant  when  Bill  Smith,  it  was  but  probable, 
robbed  the  unsuspecting  sleep  of  his  comrade. 

"You  see,"  said  Sandy,  apologetically,  "Bill  was 
restless,  that  was  the  reason.  It  was  his  enterprise 
kept  bothering  him.  Likely  he  wanted  it  for  some- 
thing, and  he  could  n't  tell  how  much  I  might  need 
without  waking  me  up  to  ask.  And  he  couldn't  do 
that,  because  that  'd  have  been  ridiculous,  would  n't 
it?  Of  course,  if  he'd  waked  me  up  to  ask  how  much 
I  wanted,  because  he  was  going  to  take  the  rest  with 
him,  why,  of  course,  I  'd  been  obliged  to  get  up  and 
hit  him,  to  show  how  ridiculous  it  was.  Of  course 
Bill  saw  that,  and  what  could  he  do?  Because  there 
wasn't  any  way  he  could  tell,  don't  you  see?  So  he 
left  the  pipe  and  tobacco,  and  a  dollar  for  luck,  and 
lit  out,  being — a — restless." 

And  Gracia  wondered  at  and  gloried  in  the  width 
of  that  charity,  that  impersonal  and  untamed  tol- 
erance. 

132 


NAUSICAA 

Then  Sandy  took  up  the  subject  of  Kid  Sadler. 
He  felt  there  was  need  of  more  virtue  and  valor. 
He  took  Kid  Sadler  and  decorated  him.  He  fitted 
him  with  picturesque  detail.  The  Kid  bothered  him 
with  his  raucous  voice,  froth-dripped  mustache,  lean 
throat,  black  mighty  hands,  and  smell  of  unclean- 
ness.  But  Sandy  chose  him  as  a  poet.  It  seemed  a 
good  start.  Gracia  surprised  him  by  looking  startled 
and  quite  tearful,  where  the  poet  says: 

"Nobody  cares  who  Bill  Smith  is, 
An  neither  does  Bill  Smith;" 

which  had  seemed  to  Sandy  only  an  accurate  state- 
ment. 

But  the  Kid's  poetry  needed  expurgation  and 
amendment.  Sandy  did  it  conscientiously,  and  spent 
hours  searching  for  lines  of  similar  rhyme,  which 
would  not  glance  so  directly  into  byways  and  alleys 
that  were  surprising. 

"A  comin  home, 
A  roamin  home — " 

"I  told  the  Kid,"  he  added  critically,  "roamm"* 
wasn't  a  good  rhyme,  but  he  thought  it  was  a 
pathetic  word." 

"Oh,  when  I  was  a  little  boy  't  was  things  I  did  n't  know, 
An  when  I growed  I  knowed  a  lot  of  things  that  was  n't  so; 
133 


THE     DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

An  now  1  know  a  few  things  that 's  useful  an  selected: 
As  how  to  put  hard  liquor  where  hard  liquor  is  expected — " 

and  so  on,  different  verses,  which  the  Kid  called  his 
"Sing  Song.'1  Sandy's  judgment  hung  in  doubt  over 
this  whether  the  lines  were  objectionable.  He  tem- 
pered the  taste  of  the  working  literary  artist  for 
distinct  flavor,  and  his  own  for  that  which  is  accu- 
rate, with  the  cautions  of  a  village  library  commit- 
tee, and  decided  on, 

"An  puts  them  things  in  moral  verse  to  uses  onexpected." 

"I  don't  know  what  he  meant  by  'onexpected,'" 
Sandy  commented  with  a  sense  of  helplessness,  "but 
maybe  he  meant  that  he  didn't  know  what  he  did 
mean.  Because  poets,"  getting  more  and  more  entan- 
gled, "poets  are  that  kind  they  can  take  a  word  and 
mean  anything  in  the  neighborhood,  or  something 
that'll  occur  to  'em  next  week." 

Gracia  admired  the  Kid,  though  Miss  Elizabeth 
thought  she  ought  to  refer  to  him  as  Mr.  Sadler, 
which  seemed  a  pity.  And  she  declared  a  violent 
love  for  Little  Irish,  because  "his  auburn  hair 
turned  bricky  red  with  falling  down  a  well,"  and 
because  he  wished  to  climb  hills  by  stepping  on  the 
back  of  his  neck.  It  was  like  Alice's  Adventures,  and 
especially  like  the  White  Knight's  scheme  to  be 
134 


NAUSICAA 

over  a  wall  by  putting  his  head  on  top  and  standing 
on  his  head. 

After  all  humors  and  modifications,  Sandy's  story 
was  a  wild  and  strange  thing.  It  took  new  details 
from  day  to  day,  filling  in  the  picture.  To  Gracia's 
imagination  it  spread  out  beyond  romance,  full  of 
glooms,  flashes,  fascinations,  dangers  of  cities,  war 
and  wilderness,  and  in  spite  of  Sandy's  self-indiffer- 
ence, it  was  he  who  dominated  the  pilgrimage,  color- 
ing it  with  his  comment.  The  pilgrim  appeared  to 
be  a  person  to  whom  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death  was  equally  interesting  with  Vanity  Fair, 
and  who  entering  the  front  gate  of  the  Celestial 
City  with  rejoicing  would  presently  want  to  know 
whither  the  back  gate  would  take  him.  It  seemed 
a  pilgrimage  to  anywhere  in  search  of  everything, 
but  Gracia  began  to  fancy  it  was  meant  to  lead 
specially  to  the  new  garden  gate  that  opened  so 
broadly  on  the  street,  and  so  dreamed  the  fancy 
into  belief.  She  saw  Sandy  in  imagination  coming 
out  of  the  pit-black  night  and  lying  down  in  the 
tool-house  by  the  wet  shining  path.  The  white  gate 
was  justified. 

Sandy's  convalescence  was  not  a  finished  thing, 
but  he  was  beginning  to  feel  energy  starting  within 
135 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

him.  Energy !  He  knew  the  feeling  well.  It  was  some- 
thing that  snarled  and  clawed  by  fits. 

"I'm  a  wildcat,11  he  said  to  himself  reflectively, 
"sitting  on  eggs.  Why  don't  he  get  off?  Now,"  as 
if  addressing  a  speculative  question  for  instance  to 
Kid  Sadler,  "he  could  n't  expect  to  hatch  anything, 
could  he?" 

It  was  such  a  question  as  the  Kid  would  have 
been  pleased  with,  and  have  considered  justly. 

"Has  he  got  the  eggs?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  a  mixed  figure,  Kid." 

"Does  he  feel  like  he  wanted  to  hatch  'em?" 

"What'd  he  do  with  'em  hatched?  That's  so, 
Kid." 

"/*  he  a  wildcat?" 

"Yep." 

"He  is.  Can  a  wildcat  hatch  eggs?  No,  he  can't." 

"A  wildcat" — the  Kid  would  have  enjoyed  fol- 
lowing this  figure — "ain't  an  incubator.  There  ain't 
enough  peacefulness  in  him.  He'd  make  a  yaller 
mess  of  'em  an'  take  to  the  woods  with  the  mess 
on  his  whiskers.  It  stands  to  reason,  don't  it?  He 
ain't  in  his  own  hole  on  a  chickadee's  nest." 

Sandy  stood  looking  over  the  gate  into  the  vil- 
lage  street,   which   was   shaded   to  dimness  by  its 
maples,  a  still,  warm,  brooding  street. 
136 


NAUSICAA 

"Like  an  incubator,1'  he  thought,  and  heard 
Gracia  calling  from  up  the  path: 

"Saint  George!" 

Sandy  turned.  She  came  down  the  path  to  the 
gate. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  fix  the  peony  bed?" 

"Not,"  said  Sandy,  "if  you  stay  here  by  the 
gate." 

Gracia  looked  away  from  him  quickly  into  the 
street. 

"It's  warm  and  quiet,  isn't  it?  It's  like — " 

Zoar  was  not  to  her  like  anything  else. 

"Like  an  incubator,"  said  Sandy,  gloomily,  and 
Gracia  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  that." 

"Kid  Sadler  would  have  said  it,  if  he'd  been 
here." 

"Would  he?" 

"Just  his  kind  of  figure.  And  he'd  be  saying 
further  it  was  time  Sandy  Cass  took  to  the  woods." 

He  had  an  irritating  spasm  of  desire  to  touch 
the  slim  white  fingers  on  the  gate.  Gracia  moved 
her  hands  nervously.  Sandy  saw  the  fingers  tremble, 
and  swore  at  himself  under  his  breath. 

"Why,  Saint  George?" 

"Thinking  he  was  a  wildcat  and  he'd  make  a 
137 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

yel — a —  Maybe  thinking  he  didn't  look  nat —  I 
mean,"  Sandy  ended  very  lamely,  "the  Kid'd  prob- 
ably use  figures  of  speech  and  mean  something 
that'd  occur  to  him  by  and  by." 

"You're  not  well  yet.  You're  not  going  so  soon," 
she  said,  speaking  quite  low. 

Sandy  meditated  a  number  of  lies,  and  concluded 
that  he  did  not  care  for  any  of  them.  He  seemed 
to  dislike  them  as  a  class. 

This  kind  of  internal  struggle  was  new  and  irri- 
tating. He  had  never  known  two  desires  that  would 
not  compromise  equably,  or  one  of  them  recognize 
its  place  and  get  out  of  the  road.  The  savage  rest- 
lessness in  his  blood,  old,  well-known,  expected, 
something  in  brain  and  bone,  had  always  carried 
its  point  and  always  would.  He  accounted  for  all 
things  in  all  men  by  reference  to  it,  supposing  them 
to  feel  restless,  the  inner  reason  why  a  man  did 
anything.  But  here  now  was  another  thing,  hope- 
lessly fighting  it,  clinging,  exasperating;  somewhere 
within  him  it  was  a  kind  of  solemn-eyed  sorrow  that 
looked  outward  and  backward  over  his  life,  and  be- 
hold, the  same  was  a  windy  alkali  desert  that  bore 
nothing  and  was  bitter  in  the  mouth;  and  at  the 
ends  of  his  fingers  it  came  to  a  keen  point,  a  desire  to 
touch  Gracia's  hair  and  the  slim  fingers  on  the  gate. 
138 


NAUSICAA 

Gracia  looked  up  and  then  away. 

"You're  not  well  yet." 

"You  've  been  uncommonly  good  to  me,  and  all — " 

"You  mustn't  speak  of  it  that  way.  It  spoils  it." 

It  seemed  to  both  as  if  they  were  swaying  nearer 
together,  a  languid,  mystical  atmosphere  thicken- 
ing about  them.  Only  there  was  the  drawback  with 
Sandy  of  an  inward  monitor,  with  a  hoarse  voice 
like  Kid  Sadler's,  who  would  be  talking  to  him  in 
figures  and  proverbs. 

"Keep  away  from  china  an'  lace;  they  break  an' 
stain;  this  thing  has  been  observed.  Likewise  is  love 
a  bit  o'  moonlight,  sonny,  that's  all,  an'  a  tempest, 
an'  a  sucked  orange.  Come  out  o'  that,  Sandy,  break 
away;  for,  in  the  words  o'  the  prophet,  'It's  no 
square  game,'  an'  this  here  girl,  God  bless  her!  but 
she  plays  too  high,  an'  you  can't  call  her,  Sandy,  you 
ain't  got  the  chips.  Come  away,  come  away." 

"And  that,"  Sandy  concluded  the  council,  "is 
pretty  accurate.  I'm  broke  this  deal." 

He  stood  up  straight  and  looked  at  Gracia  with 
eyes  drawn  and  narrowed. 

She  felt  afraid  and  did  not  understand. 

"You  don't  know  me.  If  you  knew  me,  you'd 
know  I  have  to  go." 

The  wind  rose  in  the  afternoon,  and  blew  gustily 
139 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

through  street  and  garden.  The  windows  of  Miss 
Elizabeth's  sitting-room  were  closed.  The  curtains 
hung  in  white,  lifeless  folds.  But  in  Gracia's  room 
above  the  windows  were  open,  and  the  white  cur- 
tains shook  with  the  wind.  Delicate  and  tremulous, 
they  clung  and  moulded  themselves  one  moment  to 
the  casement,  and  then  broke  out,  straining  in  the 
wind  that  tossed  the  maple  leaves  and  went  up  and 
away  into  the  wild  sky  after  the  driving  clouds. 

Sandy  turned  north  up  the  village  street,  walking 
irresolutely.  It  might  be  thirty  miles  to  Wimberton. 
The  squire  had  sent  him  money.  He  could  reach  the 
railroad  and  make  Wimberton  that  night,  but  he 
did  not  seem  to  care  about  it. 

Out  of  the  village,  he  fell  into  the  long  marching 
stride,  and  the  motion  set  his  blood  tingling.  Pres- 
ently he  felt  better;  some  burden  was  shaken  off;  he 
was  foot-loose  and  free  of  the  open  road,  looking  to 
the  friction  of  event.  At  the  end  of  five  miles  he 
remembered  a  saying  of  Kid  Sadler's,  chuckled  over 
it,  and  began  humming  other  verses  of  the  "Sing 
Song,"  so  called  by  the  outcast  poet. 

"  Oh,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  laughed  an  then  I  cried, 
An  ever  since  I  done  the  same,  more  privately,  inside. 
There's  a  joke  between  this  world  an  me  'n  it's  tolerable  grim, 
An   God  has  got  his  end  of  it,  an  some  of  it 's  on  him. 
140 


NAUSICAA 

For  he  made  a  man  with  his  left  hari ,  an  the  rest  o  things 

with  his  right; 
An  the  right  knew  not  what  the  left  han  did,  for  he  kep' 

it  out  o'  sight. 

It 's  maybe  a  Wagner  opery,  it  ain't  no  bedtime  croon, 
When  the  highest  note  in  the  universe  is  a  half  note  out 

o'  tune." 

"That  appears  to  be  pretty  accurate,"  he  thought. 
"Wonder  how  the  Kid  comes  to  know  things." 

He  swung  on  enjoying  the  growth  of  vigor,  the 
endless,  open,  travelled  road,  and  the  wind  blowing 
across  his  face. 


141 


SANDERSON     OF    BACK     MEADOWS 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK   MEADOWS 


Jt>ACK  MEADOWS  lies  three  miles  to  the  northwest  of 
Hagar,  rich  bottom-lands  in  Sanderson  Hollow,  and 
the  Cattle  Ridge  shelters  it  on  the  north.  Five  gen- 
erations of  Sandersons  have  added  to  the  Sanderson 
accumulation  of  this  world's  goods,  without  sensible 
interference  on  the  part  of  moths  or  rust  or  thieves 
that  break  through  and  steal.  Cool,  quiet  men,  slow 
of  speech  and  persistent  of  mood,  they  prospered  and 
lived  well  where  other  families,  desiring  too  many 
things  or  not  desiring  anything  enough,  found  noth- 
ing at  all  desirable  and  drifted  away.  The  specula- 
tive traveller,  hunting  "abandoned  farms,"  or  study- 
ing the  problem  of  the  future  of  New  England's 
outlying  districts,  who  should  stand  on  the  crest  of 
the  Cattle  Ridge  overlooking  the  sheltered  valley, 
would  note  it  as  an  instance  of  the  problem  satis- 
factorily solved  and  of  a  farm  which,  so  far  from 
abandonment,  smiled  over  all  its  comfortable  ex- 
panse in  the  consciousness  of  past  and  certainty  of 
future  occupancy.  These  were  ready  illustrations  for 
his  thesis,  if  he  had  one :  the  smooth  meadows,  square 
stone  walls  and  herds  of  fawn -colored  cattle,  large 
145 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

barns  and  long  stables  of  the  famous  Sanderson 
stud;  also  the  white  gabled  house  among  the  maples 
with  spreading  ells  on  either  side,  suggesting  a  posi- 
tion taken  with  foresight  and  carefully  guarded  and 
secured — a  house  that,  recognizing  the  uncertainties 
and  drifting  currents  of  the  world,  had  acted  accord- 
ingly, and  now  could  afford  to  consider  itself  com- 
placently. The  soul  of  any  individual  Sanderson 
might  be  required  of  him,  and  his  wisdom  relative 
to  eternity  be  demonstrated  folly,  but  the  policy  of 
the  Sanderson  family  had  not  so  far  been  considered 
altogether  an  individual  matter.  Even  individually, 
if  the  question  of  such  inversion  of  terms  ever  oc- 
curred to  a  Sanderson,  it  only  led  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  strictly  a  Pickwickian  usage,  and,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  language,  the  policy  of  building 
barns,  stowing  away  goods  and  reflecting  compla- 
cently thereon,  still  came  under  the  head  of  wisdom. 
Mrs.  Cullom  Sanderson,  sister  of  Israel  Sanderson 
of  the  last  generation  and  married  into  a  distant 
branch  of  the  Sanderson  family,  carried  her  mate- 
rialism with  an  unconscious  and  eccentric  frankness 
that  prevented  the  family  from  recognizing  in  her 
a  peculiar  development  of  its  own  quality.  When 
Israel's  gentle  wife  passed  from  a  world  which  she 
had  found  too  full  of  unanswered  questions,  it  was 
146 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK     MEADOWS 

Mrs.  Cullom  who  plunged  bulkily  into  the  chamber 
of  the  great  mystery  and  stopped,  gulping  with  as- 
tonishment. 

"I  just  made  her  some  blanc-mange,"  she  gasped. 
"Isn't  that  too  bad!  Why,  Israel!11 

Israel  turned  from  the  window  and  contemplated 
her  gravely  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 

"I  think  you  had  better  move  down  to  the  Mead- 
ows, Ellen,1'  he  said.  "If  you  will  contrive  to  say  as 
little  as  possible  to  me  about  Marian,  and  one  or 
two  other  matters  I  will  specify,  we  shall  get  along 
very  well.11 

He  went  out  with  slow  step  and  bent  head,  fol- 
lowed by  Mrs.  Cullom  trying  vainly  to  find  an  idea 
on  the  subject  suggested,  which  she  was  quite  posi- 
tive she  had  somewhere  about  her.  What  Israel  may 
have  thought  of  the  thing  that  had  whispered  within 
his  doors  in  an  unknown  tongue,  and  had  taken  away 
what  was  his  without  receipt  or  equivalent  exchange, 
it  were  hard  to  say;  equally  hard  even  to  say  what 
he  had  thought  of  Marian  these  twenty  years.  If  her 
cloistral  devotions  and  visionary  moods  had  seemed 
to  him,  in  unin verted  terms,  folly,  he  had  never  said 
so.  Certainly  he  had  liked  her  quiet,  ladylike  ways, 
and  possibly  respected  a  difference  of  temperament 
inwardly  as  well  as  outwardly.  At  any  rate,  tolerance 
147 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

was  a  consistent  Sanderson  policy  and  philosophy  of 
life. 

There  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  chamber, 
after  the  silence  which  followed  the  departing  foot- 
steps of  Israel  and  Mrs.  Cullom.  A  small  person  in 
pinafores  crept  stealthily  from  under  the  bed  and 
peered  over  the  edge.  It  was  a  hard  climb  but  he 
persisted,  and  at  last  seated  himself  on  it  panting, 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  gravely  considering. 
A  few  hours  since,  the  silent  lips  had  whispered, 
among  many  things  that  came  back  to  his  memory 
in  after  years  like  a  distant  chime  of  bells,  only  this 
that  seemed  of  any  immediate  importance:  "I  shall 
be  far  away  to-night,  Joe,  but  when  you  say  your 
prayers  I  shall  hear.""  The  problem  that  puckered 
the  small  brow  was  whether  prayers  out  of  regular 
hours  were  real  prayers.  Joe  decided  to  risk  it  and, 
getting  on  his  knees,  said  over  all  the  prayers  he 
knew.  Then  he  leaned  over  and  patted  the  thin,  cold 
cheek  (Joe  and  his  mother  always  tacitly  understood 
each  other),  slid  off  the  bed  with  a  satisfied  air,  and 
solemnly  trotted  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Cullom  Sanderson  was  a  widow;  "Which," 
Israel  remarked,  "is  a  pity.  Cullom  would  have 
taken  comfort  in  outliving  you,  Ellen."" 

"Well,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Cullom,  "I'm  sure  I 
148 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

don't  know  what  you  mean,  Israel.  I've  always  re- 
spected his  memory." 

Israel,  gravely  regarding  her,  observed,  "You'd 
better  not  try  to  train  Joe,"  and  departed,  leaving 
her  to  struggle  with  the  idea  that  between  Joe  and 
Cullom's  comfort  Israel  was  getting  very  discon- 
nected. Disconnection  of  remark  did  not  imply  any 
changeableness  in  Israel's  temperament.  He  observed 
a  silent  sequence  of  character,  and  possibly  a  se- 
quence of  thought  of  which  he  did  not  care  to  give 
evidence,  on  matters  which  he  found  no  profit  in 
discussing.  Twelve  years  later  the  mystery  again 
whispered  within  his  doors,  and  he  rose  and  fol- 
lowed it  in  his  usual  deliberate  and  taciturn  way, 
without  disclosing  any  opinion  on  the  question  of 
the  inversion  of  terms.  The  story  of  each  genera- 
tion is  put  away  when  its  time  comes  with  a  more 
or  less  irrelevant  epitaph,  whether  or  not  its  threads 
be  gathered  into  a  satisfactory  finale.  The  Spirit-of- 
things-moving-on  is  singularly  indifferent  to  such 
matters.  Its  only  literary  principle  seems  to  be,  to 
move  on.  The  new  Sanderson  of  Back  Meadows  grew 
up  a  slight,  thin-faced  young  fellow.  The  Sanderson 
men  were  always  slight  of  build,  saving  a  certain 
breadth  of  shoulders.  A  drooping  mustache  in  course 
of  time  hid  the  only  un-Sanderson  feature,  a  sen- 
149 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

sitive  mouth.  The  cool  gray  eyes,  slightly  drawling 
speech,  and  deliberate  manner  were  all  Sanderson, 
indicating  "a  chip  of  the  old  block,"  as  Mr.  Durfey 
remarked  to  the  old  Scotchman  who  kept  the  drug 
store  in  Hagar.  If  the  latter  had  doubts,  he  kept 
them  to  himself. 

The  Sanderson  stud  sprang  from  a  certain  red 
mare,  Martha,  belonging  to  Blake  Sanderson  of 
Revolutionary  times.  They  were  a  thin-necked,  gen- 
erally bad-tempered  breed,  with  red  veins  across  the 
eyes,  of  high  repute  among  "horsey"  men.  Blake 
Sanderson  was  said  to  have  ridden  the  red  mare 
from  Boston  in  some  astonishingly  quick  time  on 
some  mysterious  errand  connected  with  the  evacua- 
tion of  New  York,  whereby  her  descendants  were  at 
one  time  known  as  the  Courier  breed;  but  as  no  one 
seemed  to  know  what  the  errand  was,  it  was  possi- 
bly not  a  patriotic  one.  Three  of  these  red,  thin- 
necked  mares  and  a  stallion  were  on  exhibition  at 
the  Hamilton  County  Fair  of  "76.  Notable  men  of 
the  county  were  there,  mingled  with  turfmen  of  all 
shades  of  notoriety;  several  immaculately  groomed 
gentlemen,  tall-hatted,  long-coated,  and  saying  little, 
but  pointed  out  with  provincial  awe  as  coming  from 
New  York  and  worth  watching;  a  few  lean  Kentuck- 
150 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

ians,  the  redness  of  whose  noses  was  in  direct  ratio 
with  their  knowledge  of  the  business,  and  whose  ar- 
tistic profanity  had  a  mercantile  value  in  express- 
ing contempt  for  Yankee  horse-flesh.  There  was  the 
Honorable  Gerald  and  the  some-say  Dishonorable 
Morgan  Map,  originally  natives  of  Hagar,  with 
young  Jacob  Lorn  between  them  undergoing  astute 
initiation  into  the  ways  of  the  world  and  its  manner 
of  furnishing  amusement  to  young  men  of  wealth; 
both  conversing  affably  with  Gypsy  John  of  not  even 
doubtful  reputation,  at  present  booming  Canadian 
stock  in  favor  of  certain  animals  that  may  or  may 
not  have  seen  Canada.  Thither  came  the  manager  of 
the  opera  troupe  resident  in  Hamilton  during  the 
Fair,  and  the  Diva,  popularly  known  as  Mignon,  a 
brown-haired  woman  with  a  quick  Gallic  smile  and 
a  voice,  "By  gad,  sir,  that  she  can  soak  every  note 
of  it  in  tears,  the  little  scamp,'"  quoth  Cassidy,  ob- 
serving from  a  distance.  Cassidy  was  a  large  fleshy 
man  with  a  nickel  shield  under  his  coat. 
"A  face  to  launch  a  thousand  ships, 

And  burn  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium" 
misquoted  a  tall,  thin  personage  with  an  elongated 
face   and  sepulchral   voice.   "The   gods   made   you 
poetical,  Mr.   Cassidy.   Do  you   find  your  gift   of 
sentiment  of  use  on  the  force?" 
151 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"Yes,  sir,"  shouted  Cassidy,  inadvertently  touched 
on  one  of  innumerable  hobbies  and  beginning  to 
pound  one  hand  excitedly  with  the  fist  of  the  other. 
"In  fine  cases,  sir,  the  ordinary  detective  slips  up  on 
just  that  point.  Now  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Haver- 
ing—" 

"Tell  me  whether  that  is  not  Mignon's  'mari.1 
What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"Mignon's  what?  Oh — Manager  Scott.  He  isn't 
married,  further  than  that  he's  liable  to  rows  on 
account  of  Mignon,  who — has  a  face  to  upset  things 
as  you  justly  observe,  not  to  speak  of  a  disposition 
according.  At  least,  I  don't  know  but  what  they 
may  be  married.  If  they  are,  they're  liable  to  per- 
petuate more  rows  than  anything  else." 

"'Does  something  smack,  something  grow  to,  has 
a  kind  of  taste?1" 

"Eh?"  said  Cassidy,  inquiringly. 

Sanderson,  standing  silently  by,  as  silently  turned 
and  walked  toward  the  crowd  drifting  back  and 
forth  in  front  of  the  stables.  Portly  Judge  Carter 
of  Gilead,  beaming  through  gold-rimmed  glasses, 
side-whiskered  and  rubicund,  stopped  him  to  remark 
tremendously  that  he  had  issued  an  injunction 
against  the  stallion  going  out  of  the  state.  "A  mat- 
ter of  local  patriotism,  Joe,  eh?" 

152 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

"Hear,  hear,"  commented  the  Honorable  Gerald 
Map.  A  crowd  began  to  gather  anticipating  a  con- 
ference of  notables.  Sanderson  extricated  himself  and 
walked  on,  and  two  small  boys  eventually  smacked 
each  other  over  the  question  whether  Judge  Carter 
was  as  great  a  man  as  Mr.  Sanderson. 

Mavering's  eyes  followed  him  speculatively. 

"What's  the  particular  combination  that  troubles 
the  manager's  rest?" 

"Eh?"  said  Cassidy.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  Bob 
Sutton  mostly.  He's  here  somewhere.  Swell  young 
fellow  in  a  plush  vest,  fashionable  proprietor  of 
thread  mills." 

The  yellow,  dusty  road  ran  between  the  stables 
and  a  battle  line  of  sycamores  and  maples.  Over  the 
stables  loomed  the  brick  wall  of  the  theatre,  and  at 
the  end  of  them  a  small  green  door  for  the  private 
use  of  exhibitors  gave  exit  from  the  Fair  Grounds. 
Sanderson  stopped  near  a  group  opposite  it,  where 
Mignon  stood  slapping  her  riding-boot  with  her  whip. 

"Mr.  Sanderson,"  said  Mignon,  liquidly,  "how  can 
I  get  out  through  that  door?" 

Sanderson  considered  and  suggested  opening  it. 

"But  it's  locked!  Ciel!  It's  locked!" 

Sanderson  considered  again.  "Here's  a  key,"  he 
said  hopefully. 

153 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"There!"  shouted  the  plush  vest.  "I  knew  there 'd 
be  some  solution.  You  see,  mademoiselle,  what  we 
admire  in  Sanderson  is  his  readiness  of  resource. 
Mademoiselle  refused  to  melt  down  the  fence  with 
a  smile  or  climb  over  it  on  a  high  C,  and  we  were 
quite  in  despair."" 

Outside  the  gate,  in  the  paved  courtyard  between 
the  theatre  and  the  hotel,  Mignon  lifted  her  big 
brown  eyes  which  said  so  many  things,  according  to 
Cassidy,  that  were  not  so,  and  observed  demurely, 
"If  you  were  to  leave  me  that  key,  Mr.  Sanderson, 
well,  I  should  steal  in  here  after  the  performance  to- 
night and  ride  away  on  the  little  red  mare,  certainly." 

Sanderson  gravely  held  out  the  key,  but  Mignon 
drew  back  in  sudden  alarm  and  clasped  her  hands 
tragically. 

"Oh,  no!  You  would  be  on  guard  and,  what!  cut 
up?  Yes.  Ah,  dreadfully!  You  are  so  wise,  Mr.  San- 
derson, and  secret." 

And  Jack  Mavering,  following  slowly  after,  chuc- 
kled sepulchrally  to  himself.  "Pretty  cool  trysting. 
Peace  to  the  shades  of  Manager  Scott.  I  could  n't 
have  done  it  better  myself." 

The  Fair  Grounds  were  as  dark  and   lonely  at 
eleven  o'clock  as  if  the  lighted  street  were  not  three 
154 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

hundred  feet  away  with  its  gossipy  multitude  going 
up  and  down  seeking  some  new  thing.  The  stands 
yawned  indifferently  from  a  thousand  vacant  seats 
and  the  race-track  had  forgotten  its  excitement. 
Horses  stamped  and  rustled  spectrally  in  their 
stalls.  The  shadow  under  the  maples  was  abysmal 
and  the  abyss  gave  forth  a  murmur  of  dialogue, 
the  sound  of  a  silken  voice. 

"Oh,"  it  sighed  in  mock  despair,  "but  Americans, 
they  are  so  very  impassive.  Look!  They  make  love 
in  monosyllables.  They  have  no  passion,  no  action. 
They  pull  their  mustachios,  say  'Damn!1 — so,  and  it 
is  tragedy.  They  stroke  their  chins,  so,  very  grave. 
They  say  'It  is  not  bad,'  and  it  is  comedy.  Ah, 
please,  Joe,  be  romantique!" 

"Why,"  drawled  the  other  voice,  "I'll  do  what- 
ever you  like,  except  have  spasms." 

"Indifferent!  Bah!  That's  not  romantique.  How 
would  I  look  in  the  house  of  your  fathers?" 

"You'd  look  like  thunder." 

"Would  I?"  The  silken  voice  sank  low  and  was 
quiet  for  a  moment.  "Well  then,  listen.  This  shall 
you  do.  You  shall  give  me  that  key  and  an  order  to 
your  man  that  I  ride  the  little  mare  of  a  Sunday 
morning,  which  is  to-morrow,  because  she  is  the  wind 
and  because  you  are  disagreeable.  Is  it  not  so?" 
155 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

A  ripple  of  low  laughter  by  the  green  door,  and 
"There  then.  You  drive  a  hard  bargain  in  love, 
monsieur.""  The  door  opened  and  she  stepped  with  a 
rustle  of  skirts  into  and  through  the  paved  court- 
yard, now  unlit  by  lamps  at  the  theatre  entrance, 
dark  enough  for  the  purposes  of  Manager  Scott,  in 
an  angle  of  the  entrance  pulling  his  mustache  and 
speaking  after  the  manner  described  by  Mignon  as 
tragedy. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Wyantenaug  many  stopped 
and  listened  breathlessly  by  barn-yard  and  entry 
door  to  a  voice  that  floated  along  the  still  air  of 
the  Sabbath  morning,  now  carolling  like  a  bobolink, 
now  fluting  like  a  wood-thrush,  now  hushed  in  the 
covert  of  arching  trees,  and  now  pealing  over  the 
meadows  by  the  river  bank;  others  only  heard  a 
rush  of  hoofs  and  saw  a  little  red  horse  and  its 
rider  go  by  with  the  electric  stride  of  a  trained 
racer.  Each  put  his  or  her  interpretation  thereon, 
elaborately  detailed  after  the  manner  of  the  region, 
and  approximated  the  fact  of  Mignon  and  her  pur- 
poses as  nearly  as  might  be  expected.  Delight  in 
the  creation  of  jewelled  sounds  as  an  end  in  itself; 
delight  in  the  clear  morning  air  of  autumn  val- 
leys, the  sight  of  burnished  leaves  and  hills  in  mad 
156 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

revelry  of  color;  delight  in  following  vagrant  fan- 
cies with  loose  rein,  happy,  wine-lipped  elves  that 
rise  without  reason  and  know  no  law;  delight  in 
the  thrill  and  speed  of  a  sinewy  horse  compact  of 
nerves;  however  all  these  may  have  entered  in  the 
purposes  of  Mignon,  they  are  not  likely  to  have  en- 
tered the  conjectures  of  the  inhabitants  of  Wyante- 
naug  Valley,  such  pleasures  of  the  flesh.  Mignon  let 
the  mare  choose  her  road,  confining  her  own  choice 
to  odd  matters  of  going  slow  or  fast  or  not  at  all, 
pausing  by  the  river  bank  to  determine  the  key  and 
imitate  the  quality  of  its  low  chuckle,  and  such  do- 
ings; all  as  incomprehensible  to  the  little  red  mare 
as  to  the  inhabitants  of  Wyantenaug  Valley. 

The  valley  is  broad  with  cup-shaped  sides,  save 
where  the  crowding  of  the  hills  has  thrust  one 
forward  to  stand  in  embarrassed  projection.  Some 
twenty  miles  above  Hamilton  rises  Windless  Moun- 
tain on  the  right,  guarding  from  the  world  the  vil- 
lage of  Hagar  behind  it.  Northward  from  Windless 
lie  irregular  hills,  and  between  them  and  the  long 
westward-inclining  tumulus  of  the  Cattle  Ridge  a 
narrow  gorge  with  a  tumbling  brook  comes  down. 
Up  this  gorge  goes  a  broad,  well-kept  road,  now 
bridging  the  brook,  now  slipping  under  shelving 
ledges,  everywhere  carpeted  with  the  needles  of  pines, 
157 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

secret  with  the  shadows  of  pines,  spicy  and  strong 
with  the  scent  of  pines,  till  at  the  end  of  half  a  mile 
it  emerges  from  beneath  the  pines  into  Sanderson 
Hollow.  The  little  red  mare  shot  from  the  gloom 
into  the  sunlight  with  a  snort  and  shake  of  the  head 
that  seemed  to  say:  "Oh,  my  hoofs  and  fetlocks!  De- 
liver me  from  a  woman  who  makes  believe  to  herself 
she  is  n't  going  where  she  is,  or  if  she  is  that  it 's 
only  accidental." 

Mrs.  Cullom  Sanderson  ponderously  made  ready 
for  church,  not  with  a  mental  preparation  of  which 
the  minister  would  have  approved  unless  he  had  seen 
as  clearly  as  Mrs.  Cullom  the  necessity  of  denouncing 
in  unmeasured  terms  the  iniquity  of  Susan.  Susan 
was  a  maid  who  tried  to  do  anything  that  she  was 
told,  and  bumped  her  head  a  great  deal.  Her  pres- 
ent iniquity  lay  in  her  fingers  and  consisted  in 
tying  and  buttoning  Mrs.  Cullom  and  putting  her 
together  generally  so  that  she  felt  as  if  she  had 
fallen  into  her  clothes  from  different  directions.  A 
ring  at  the  door-bell  brought  Mrs.  Cullom  down 
from  heights  of  sputtering  invective  like  an  ex- 
hausted sky-rocket,  and  she  plumped  into  a  chair 
whispering  feebly,  "Goodness,  Susan,  who's  that?" 
Susan  vaguely  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  "that." 
"You  might  find  out,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Cullom, 
158 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

the  reaction  precluding  anything  but  a  general  feel- 
ing of  injury.  Susan  went  down-stairs  and  bumped 
her  head  on  the  chandelier,  opened  the  door  and 
bumped  it  on  the  door. 

"Ouch,"  she  remarked  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"Please,  ma'am,  Miss  Sanderson  wants  to  know, 
who's  that?" 

"Ah,"  said  the  trim  little  lady  in  riding-habit, 
"will  you  so  kindly  ask  Miss  Sanderson  that  I  may 
speak  to  her?" 

But  Mrs.  Cullom  was  already  descending  the 
stairs,  each  step  appearing  to  Mignon  to  have  the 
nature  of  a  plunge.  "My  goodness,  yes.  Come  in." 
Mignon  carried  her  long  skirt  over  the  lintel. 

"I  am  quite  grieved  to  intrude,  mademoi — "  Mrs. 
Cullom's  matronly  proportions  seemed  to  discounte- 
nance the  diminutive,  "a — madame.  Mr.  Sanderson 
permitted  me  to  ride  one  of  his  horses.  He  is  so 
generous.  And  the  horse  brought  me  here,  oh,  quite 
decisively,"  and  Mignon  laughed  such  a  soft,  magical 
laugh  that  Susan  grinned  in  broad  delight.  "It  is 
such  a  famous  place,  this,  is  it  not, — Back  Mead- 
ows? I  thought  I  might  be  allowed  to — to  pay 
tribute  to  its  fame." 

Mrs.  CullonVs  cordiality  was  such  that  if,  strictly 
speaking,  two  hundred  pounds  can  flutter,  she  may 
159 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

be  said  to  have  fluttered.  She  plunged  through  two 
sombre-curtained  parlors,  Mignon  drifting  serenely 
in  the  wake  of  her  tumult.  Something  in  the  black, 
old  colonial  furniture  sent  a  feeling  of  cold  gruesome- 
ness  into  her  sunny  veins,  and  she  was  glad  when 
Mrs.  Cullom  declared  it  chilly  and  towed  her  into 
the  dining-room,  where  a  warm  light  sifted  through 
yellow  windows  of  modern  setting  high  over  a  long, 
irregular  sideboard,  and  mellowed  the  portraits  of 
departed  Sandersons  on  the  walls:  honorables  numer- 
ous of  colonial  times  (Blake,  first  of  the  horse-breed- 
ing Sandersons,  booted  and  spurred  but  with  too 
much  thinness  of  face  and  length  of  jaw  for  a  Squire 
Western  type),  all  flanked  by  dames,  with  a  child 
here  and  there,  above  or  below — all  but  the  late 
Israel,  whose  loneliness  in  his  gilt  frame  seemed  to 
have  a  certain  harmony  with  his  expression. 

"That  was  Joseph^  father,  my  brother  Israel," 
said  Mrs.  Cullom,  as  Mignon's  eyes  travelled  curi- 
ously along  and  rested  on  the  last.  "Joseph  keeps 
his  mother  hung  up  in  his  den." 

"Hung  up?  Den?"  cried  Mignon,  with  a  recur- 
rence of  the  gruesome  feeling  of  the  parlors.  "Oh, 
ciel!  What  does  he  keep  there?  Bones?" 

"Bones!  Goodness  no.  Books." 

Mrs.   Cullom   pushed   open   a  door  to  the   right 
160 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

and  entered  a  long,  low  room  piled  to  the  ceiling 
and  littered  with  books,  which,  together  with  the 
leathern  chair  and  red-shaded  lamp  before  the  fire- 
place, gave  a  decided  air  of  studious  repose,  noth- 
ing suggesting  a  breeder  of  fancy  stock.  An  oil 
painting  of  a  lady  hung  over  the  mantel,  and  near 
it  some  mediaeval  Madonna,  not  unresembling  the 
portrait  in  its  pale  cheeks,  unworldly  eyes,  and  that 
faint  monastic  air  of  vigil  and  vision  and  strenuous 
yearning  of  the  soul  to  throw  its  dust  aside.  Never- 
theless the  face  of  the  lady  was  a  sweet  face,  quiet 
and  pure,  such  as  from  many  a  Madonna  of  the 
Old  World  in  tawdry  regalia  looks  pityingly  down 
over  altar  and  winking  tapers,  seeming  to  say  with 
her  tender  eyes,  "Is  it  very  hard,  my  dear,  the  liv- 
ing? Come  apart  then  and  rest  awhile.""  Mignon 
turned  to  Mrs.  Cullom.  "You  are  dressed  for  going 
out,  madame,"  she  said,  looking  at  that  lady's  well- 
to-do  black  silk.  "Am  I  not  detaining  you?" 

"Oh,  I  was  going  to  church.  Goodness,  aren't  you 
going  to  church  ?"  A  sudden  thought  struck  her 
and  she  added  severely:  "And  youVe  been  riding 
that  wicked  little  mare  on  Sunday.  And  she  might 
have  thrown  you,  and  how  'd  you  look  pitched  head- 
first into  heaven  dressed  so  everybody  'd  know  you 
weren't  going  to  church!" 
161 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

"Oh,"  cried  Mignon,  "but  I  was  good  when  I 
was  a  child.  Yes!  I  went  to  mass  every  day,  and 
had  a  little  prie-dieu,  oh,  so  tiny!'1 

"Mass!"  gasped  Mrs.  Cullom.  "Well,  I  declare. 
What's  a  pray -do?" 

Mignon  Purveyed  her  riding -skirt  regretfully. 
"Would  it  not  be  appropriate,  madame?  I  should 
so  like  to  go  with  you,"  she  said  plaintively. 

"Goodness!  I'll  risk  it  if  you  will.  I'd  like  to  see 
the  woman  who'd  tell  me  what  to  wear  to  church." 
She  plunged  suddenly  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Mignon  thinking  that  she  would  not  like  to  be 
the  woman  referred  to.  She  listened  to  the  ponder- 
ous footsteps  of  Mrs.  Cullom  climbing  the  stairs, 
and  then  sank  into  the  leathern  chair  facing  the 
picture.  Possibly  the  living  and  the  dead  faced  each 
other  on  a  point  at  issue;  they  seemed  to  debate 
some  matter  gravely  and  gently,  as  is  seldom  done 
where  both  are  living.  Possibly  it  was  Mignon's 
dramatic  instinct  which  caused  her  to  rise  at  last, 
gathering  up  her  riding-skirt,  at  the  approaching 
footsteps  of  Mrs.  Cullom,  and  bow  with  Gallic 
grace  and  diminutive  statelincss  to  the  pure-faced 
lady  with  the  spiritual  eyes.  "C'est  vrai,  madame," 
she  said,  and  passed  out  with  her  small  head  in 
the  air. 

162 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

The  congregation  that  day  in  the  little  church  of 
the  bended  weather-vane,  where  Hagar's  cross-roads 
meet,  heard  certain  ancient  hymns  sung  as  never 
before  in  the  church  of  the  bended  weather-vane. 
"Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,""  pleaded  the  silken 
voice,  like  a  visitant  invisible,  floating  from  fluted 
pillar  to  fluted  pillar,  calling  at  some  unseen  door, 
"Let  me  in!  Ah,  let  me  in!"  Somewhat  too  much  of 
rose  leaves  and  purple  garments  in  the  voice  for  that 
simple,  steadfast  music.  The  spirit  seemed  pleading 
rather  for  gratification  than  rest.  The  congregation 
stopped  singing,  save  Mrs.  Cullom,  who  flatted  com- 
fortably on  unnoticed.  Deacon  Crockett  frowned 
ominously  over  his  glasses  at  a  scandalous  scene  and 
a  woman  too  conspicuous;  Captain  David  Brett 
showed  all  the  places  where  he  had  no  teeth;  Mr. 
Royce  looked  down  from  the  pulpit  troubled  with 
strange  thoughts,  and  Miss  Hettie  Royce  dropped 
her  veil  over  her  face,  remembering  her  youth. 

How  should  Mignon  know  she  was  not  expected 
to  be  on  exhibition  in  that  curious  place?  Of  course 
people  should  be  silent  and  listen  when  an  artist 
sings.  Mignon  hardly  remembered  a  time  when  she 
was  not  more  or  less  on  exhibition.  That  volatile 
young  lady  cantered  along  the  Windless  Mountain 
Road  somewhat  after  twelve  o'clock  not  in  a  very 
163 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

good  humor.  She  recognized  the  ill  humor,  con- 
sidered ill  humor  a  thing  both  unpleasant  and  un- 
necessary and  attributed  it  to  an  empty  stomach; 
dismounted  before  an  orchard  and  swung  herself  over 
the  wall  reckless  of  where  her  skirts  went  or  where 
they  did  not. 

"Them  apples  is  mine,1'  growled  a  gray -bearded 
person  behind  a  barn -yard  fence. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  get  them  for  me,  pig?"  re- 
turned Mignon  sharply,  and  departed  with  more 
than  her  small  hands  could  conveniently  carry,  leav- 
ing the  gray-bearded  person  turning  the  question 
over  dubiously  in  his  mind. 

It  happened  to  have  occurred  to  Sanderson  that 
certain  business  of  his  own  pointed  to  Back  Mead- 
ows that  Sunday  morning.  The  up-train  on  Sunday 
does  not  leave  till  after  eleven,  and  he  took  the 
valley  road  on  the  red  stallion  of  uncertain  temper. 
The  inhabitants  of  Wyantenaug  Valley  heard  no 
more  carolling  voices,  or  fitful  rush  and  clatter  of 
hoofs.  The  red  stallion  covered  his  miles  with  a 
steady  stride  and  the  rider  kept  his  emotions, 
aesthetic  or  otherwise,  to  himself.  The  twain  swung 
into  the  Hollow  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  Sander- 
son presently  found  himself  in  his  leathern  chair 

164 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

debating  a  question  at  issue  with  the  lady  of  the 
spiritual  eyes.  What  passed  between  them  is  their 
own  secret,  quite  hopeless  of  discovery,  with  one 
end  of  it  on  the  other  side  of  the  "valley  of  the 
shadow,""  and  the  other  buried  in  close  coverts  of 
Sanderson  reserve.  When  the  door-bell  rang  and 
Susan  appearing  bumped  her  head  against  the  casing 
and  announced,  "Mr.  Joe,  it's  a  red-haired  gentle- 
man," having  no  dramatic  instinct,  he  passed  into 
the  dining-room  without  salutation  to  the  lady  of 
the  spiritual  eyes. 

"How  are  you,  Scott?  Sit  down,"  he  drawled 
placidly. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  I  'm  here  for,"  said  the 
other,  with  evident  self-restraint. 

"Can't  say  I  do,"  returned  Sanderson,  cheerfully. 
"It  needn't  be  anything  in  particular,  need  it?"  He 
sat  down,  stretched  his  legs  under  the  dining-room 
table  and  his  arms  on  top  of  it.  Manager  Scott 
paced  the  floor  nervously.  Suddenly  he  stooped, 
picked  up  something  and  flung  it  on  the  table — a 
strip  of  thin  gray  veil.  "You  can  save  yourself  a  lie, 
Mr.  Sanderson." 

Sanderson  gravely  regarded  the  delicate  article 
which  seemed  to  be  put  forth  both  as  an  accusation 
and  a  proof  of  something.  Then  he  leaned  forward 
165 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

and  rang  the  bell.  "I  will  overlook  that  implication 
for  the  present,  Mr.  Scott,""  he  remarked.  "If  it's  a 
bluff,  it 's  a  good  one.  I  take  it  it  is  n't.  Susan,  has 
any  one  been  here  this  morning?"  as  that  maiden 
tumbled  into  the  room  in  a  general  tangle  of  feet. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  she's  gone.  My!  She  ain't  comin' 
back  to  dinner!  Lady  rode  the  little  mare  and  she 
went  to  church  with  Miss  Sanderson." 

"  Mademoiselle  Mignon,"  drawled  Sanderson,  turn- 
ing to  Manager  Scott,  "asked  permission  to  ride  the 
mare  this  morning.  I  was  not  aware  she  intended 
making  an  excursion  to  Back  Meadows  or  I  should 
have  asked  permission  to  attend  her.  It  seems  she 
went  to  Hagar  with  my  aunt  and  proposes  to  ride 
back  to  Hamilton  from  there.  It 's  my  turn  now,  old 
man,  and  I  'd  like  to  know  what  was  the  necessity  of 
making  your  visit  so  very  tragic." 

"Oh,  I  presume  I'm  an  ass,"  returned  the  other, 
with  a  noticeable  nervous  twitching  of  the  mouth 
and  fingers,  "and  I  presume  I  owe  you  an  apology.  I 
shall  probably  shoot  the  man  that  comes  between 
Mignon  and  me,  if  he  doesn't  shoot  first,  which  is 
all  very  asinine." 

"Quite  irrespective  of  what  mademoiselle  may 
think  about  it?" 

"Oh,  quite." 

166 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

"Well,"  said  Sanderson,  after  a  pause,  "I  rather 
sympathize  with  your  way  of  looking  at  it.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  I  had  some  of  that  primeval 
brutality  myself."" 

"Look  here,  Sanderson,11  said  the  manager. 
"Without  going  into  humiliating  details  as  to  how 
I  came  by  the  fact,  which  I  don't  know  why  you 
take  so  much  pains  to  conceal,  I  know  as  well  as 
you  do  that  the  issue  is  between  you  and  me.11 

"You  don't  mean  to  threaten,  do  you,  Scott?11 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  going  back  to  Hamilton.  I  was 
looking  for  a  row,  and  you  don't  give  me  enough  to 
go  on.11 

"Can't  do  it  just  now,  old  man,"  said  Sanderson, 
gently,  shaking  hands  with  him  at  the  door.  "I'll 
let  you  know  when  I  can.  In  that  case  we  '11  have  it 
out  between  us.11 

The  manager  strode  off  across  the  Hollow  and 
down  the  Gorge  to  the  valley  station,  and  Sanderson 
mounted  and  took  the  road  to  Hagar.  He  passed 
the  village  about  one.  The  red  stallion  thundered 
through  the  pine  avenues  at  the  foot  of  Windless 
and  swept  around  the  curve  into  Wyantenaug  Val- 
ley, but  it  was  not  till  within  a  few  miles  of  Hamil- 
ton that  the  speedy  little  mare,  even  bothered  as  she 
was  by  her  rider's  infirmity  of  purpose,  allowed  her- 
167 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

self  to  be  overtaken.  The  road  there  turned  away 
from  the  river  and  went  covered  with  crisp  autumn 
leaves  through  chestnut  woods.  Mignon  looked  up 
and  laughed,  and  the  two  horses  fell  sympathetically 
into  a  walk. 

"Don't  you  think  you  owe  me  an  explanation?" 
asked  Sanderson,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  owe  you  nothing,  not  even  for  this 
ride.  It  was  paid  for,""  rippled  the  silken  voice,  and 
stopped  suddenly  in  a  little  sob.  Sanderson  turned 
quickly  and  bent  over  her. 

"By  the  living  God,"  he  said  solemnly,  "I  swear  I 
love  you.  What  barrier  is  strong  enough  to  face 
that?" 

"It  is  because  you  do  not  know  me,  that.  Listen, 
Joe.  I  have  not  been  what  you  call  good  nor  pure  in 
the  past  and  shall  not  in  the  future.  No,  hush.  I 
know  what  I  am  and  what  I  shall  be  always.  If  I 
swore  by  your  living  God  that  I  loved  you  now,  it 
would  not  mean  that  I  should  to-morrow,  and  the 
next  day,  oh,  not  at  all.  There  are  no  deeps  in  me, 
nor  what  you  call  a  faith  or  principle  in  life.  Listen, 
Joe.  That  lady  whose  portrait  I  saw  is  your  guar- 
dian angel.  Look,  I  reverence  now.  To-morrow  I  shall 
mock  both  her  and  you.  This  that  I  speak  now  is 
only  a  mood.  The  wind  is  now  one  thing  and  then 
168 


SANDERSON    OF    BACK    MEADOWS 

quite  another,  Joe.  It  has  no  centre  and  no  soul.  I 
am  an  artist,  sir.  I  have  moods  but  no  character. 
Morals !  I  have  none.  They  go  like  the  whiff  of  the 
breeze.  Nothing  that  I  do  lowers  or  lifts  me.  It 
passes  through  me  and  that  is  all.  Do  you  not  under- 
stand?1' which  indeed  was  hard  to  do,  for  the  brown 
eyes  were  very  soft  and  deep. 

"If  any  one  else  had  told  me  this,"  said  Sander- 
son, between  his  teeth,  "man  or  woman,  it  would 
never  have  been  said  but  once.11 

"It  is  harder  for  you  than  for  me,  for  to-morrow  I 
shall  not  care  and  you,  you  will  care  perhaps  a  long 
time.  You  are  fast  like  these  hills.  Listen.  Now,  sir, 
this  is  our  last  ride  together.  We  are  a  cavalier  and 
his  lady.  They  are  gallant  and  gay.  They  wear  life 
and  love  and  death  in  their  hair  like  flowers.  They 
smile  and  will  not  let  their  hearts  be  sad,  for  they 
say,  'It  is  cowardly  to  be  sad:  it  is  brave  only  to 
smile.1  Is  it  not  so?11 

Sanderson's  New  England  reserve  fled  far  away, 
and  he  bent  over  her  hand. 

"It  shall  be  as  you  say.11 

And  to-morrow  seemed  far  enough  away,  and  an 
hour  had  its  eternal  value.  But  the  steady  old  hills 
could  not  understand  that  kind  of  chronology. 


169 


TWO   ROADS    THAT  MEET    IN   SALEM 


TWO     ROADS 
THAT    MEET    IN    SALEM 


J.HE  Salem  Road  is  a  dusty  road.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  really  any  dustier  than  other  roads,  but  it  is 
straighter  than  most  roads  about  Hagar.  You  can 
see  more  of  it  at  a  time,  and  in  that  way  you  can  see 
more  dust.  Along  this  road  one  day  many  years  ago 
came  Dr.  Wye  of  Salem  in  his  buggy,  which  leaned 
over  on  one  side;  and  the  dust  was  all  over  the 
buggy-top,  all  over  the  big,  gray,  plodding  horse, 
and  all  over  the  doctor's  hat  and  coat.  He  was  tired 
and  drowsy,  but  you  would  not  have  suspected  it; 
for  he  was  a  red-faced,  sturdy  man,  with  a  beard 
cut  square,  as  if  he  never  compromised  with  any- 
thing. He  sat  up  straight  and  solid,  so  as  not  to 
compromise  with  the  tipping  of  the  buggy. 

"Come,  Billy,"  said  the  doctor,  "no  nonsense, 
now." 

He  prided  himself  on  being  a  strict  man,  who 
would  put  up  with  no  nonsense,  but  every  one  knew 
better.  Billy,  the  gray  horse,  knew  as  well  as  any  one. 

"Come  now,  Billy,  get  along." 

A  tall,  dusty,  black-bearded  man  rose  up  beside 
the  road,  and  Billy  stopped  immediately. 
173 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

A  large  pack  lay  against  the  bank. 

"You  ain't  seen  a  yeller  dog?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  gruffly.  He  was  provoked 
with  Billy.  "There  aren't  any  yellow  dogs  around 
here." 

"He  hadn't  no  tail,"  persisted  the  stranger,  wist- 
fully. "And  there  were  a  boy  a-holdin'  him.  He 
chopped  it  off  when  he  were  little." 

"Who  chopped  it  off?" 

"Hey?  He's  a  little  cuss,  but  the  dog's  a  good 
dog." 

"Get  up,  Billy,"  growled  the  doctor.  "All  boys 
are  little  cusses.  I  have  n't  seen  any  yellow  dog.  Non- 
sense !  I  wonder  he  did  n't  ask  if  I  'd  seen  the  tail." 

But  somehow  the  doctor  could  not  get  rid  of  the 
man's  face,  and  he  found  himself  looking  along 
the  roadside  for  beys  that  were  distinctly  "little 
cusses"  and  yellow  dogs  without  tails,  all  the  rest 
of  the  day. 

In  the  evening  twilight  he  drove  into  Salem  vil- 
lage. Very  cool  and  pleasant  looked  the  little  white 
house  among  the  trees.  Mother  Wye  stood  on  the 
porch  in  her  white  apron  and  cap,  watching  for 
him.  She  was  flying  signals  of  distress — if  the  word 
were  not  too  strong — she  was  even  agitated.  He 
tramped  up  the  steps  reassuringly. 
174 


TWO     ROADS    THAT    MEET    IN    SALEM 

"Oh,"  whispered  Mother  Wye,  "you've  no  idea, 
Ned!  There's  a  boy  and  a  dog,  a  very  large  dog, 
my  dear,  on  the  back  steps.11 

"Well,11  said  the  doctor,  gallantly,  "they've  no 
business  to  be  anywhere  frightening  my  little  mo- 
ther. We  11  tell  them  to  do  something  else."  The 
doctor  tramped  sturdily  around  to  the  back  steps, 
Mother  Wye  following  much  comforted. 

The  dog  was  actually  a  yellow  dog  without  any 
tail  to  speak  of — a  large,  genial-looking  dog,  never- 
theless; the  boy,  a  black -eyed  boy,  very  grave  and 
indifferent,  with  a  face  somewhat  thin  and  long. 
"Without  doubt,11  thought  the  doctor,  "a  little 
cuss.  Hullo,11  he  said  aloud,  "I  met  a  man  looking 
for  you.11 

The  boy  scrutinized  him  with  settled  gravity. 
"He's  not  much  account,11  he  said  calmly.  "I'd 
rather  stay  here." 

"Oh,  you  would!"  grumbled  the  doctor.  "Must 
think  I  want  somebody  around  all  the  time  to 
frighten  this  lady.  Nice  folks  you  are,  you  and  your 
dog." 

The  boy  turned  quickly  and  took  off  his  cap.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  he  said  with  a  smile 
that  was  singularly  sudden  and  winning.  The  ac- 
tion was  so  elderly  and  sedate,  so  very  courtly,  sur- 
175 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

prising,  and  incongruous,  that  the  doctor  slapped 
his  knee  and  laughed  uproariously;  and  Mother 
Wye  went  through  an  immediate  revulsion,  to  feel 
herself  permeated  with  motherly  desires.  The  boy 
went  on  unmoved. 

"He's  an  easy  dog,  ma'am.  His  name's  Poison, 
but  he  never  does  anything;" — which  started  the 
doctor  off  again. 

"They  said  you  wanted  a  boy.1' 

"Ah,"  said  the  doctor,  growing  grave,  "that's 
true;  but  you're  not  the  boy." 

The  boy  seemed  to  think  him  plainly  mistaken. 

"Stuff!"  growled  the  doctor,  "I  want  a  boy  I 
can  send  all  around  the  country.  I  know  a  dozen 
boys  that  know  the  country,  and  that  I  know  all 
about.  I  don't  want  you.  Besides,"  he  added,  "he 
said  you  were  a  little  cuss." 

The  boy  paid  no  attention  to  the  last  remark. 
"I'll  find  it  out.  Other  boys  are  thick-headed." 

"That's  true,"  the  doctor  admitted;  "they  are 
thick-headed."  Indeed  this  young  person's  serenity 
and  confidence  quite  staggered  him.  A  new  diplo- 
matic idea  seemed  to  occur  to  the  young  person. 
He  turned  to  Mother  Wye  and  said  gravely: 

"Will  you  pull  Poison's  ear,  ma'am,  so  he'll 
know  it's  all  right?" 

176 


TWO     ROADS    THAT    MEET    IN    SALEM 

Mother  Wye,  with  some  trepidation,  pulled  Poi- 
son's ear,  and  Poison  wagged  the  whole  back  end 
of  himself  to  make  up  for  a  tail,  signifying  things 
that  were  amicable,  while  the  doctor  tugged  at  his 
beard  and  objected  to  nonsense. 

"Well,  young  man,  we'll  see  what  you  have  to 
say  for  yourself.  Tut!  tut!  mother," — to  Mrs.  Wye's 
murmur  of  remonstrance, — "we'll  have  no  non- 
sense. This  is  a  practical  matter;"  and  he  tramped 
sturdily  into  the  house,  followed  by  the  serious  boy, 
the  amicable  dog,  and  the  appeased,  in  fact  the 
quite  melted,  Mother  Wye. 

"Now,  boy,"  said  the  doctor,  "what's  your 
name?" 

"Jack." 

"Jack  what?  Is  that  other  fellow  your  father?" 

"I  reckon  maybe  he  is,"  returned  Jack,  with  a 
gloomy  frown.  "His  name's  Baker.  He  peddles." 

The  doctor  tugged  at  his  beard  and  muttered 
that  "at  any  rate  there  appeared  to  be  no  nonsense 
about  it.  But  he's  looking  for  you,"  he  said.  "He'll 
take  you  away." 

"He's  looking  for  the  dog,"  said  Jack,  calmly. 
"He  can't  have  him." 

The  East  End  Road,  which  circles  the  eastern  end 

177 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

of  the  Cattle  Ridge,  is  not  at  all  like  the  Salem 
Road.  It  is  wilder  and  crookeder,  to  begin  with,  but 
that  is  a  superficial  matter.  It  passes  through  thick 
woods,  dips  into  gullies,  and  changes  continually, 
while  along  the  Salem  Road  there  is  just  the  smoky 
haze  on  the  meadows  and  dust  in  the  chalices  of 
the  flowers;  there  too  the  distance  blinks  stupidly 
and  speculation  comes  to  nothing.  But  the  real 
point  is  this:  the  Salem  Road  leads  straight  to 
Hagar  and  stops  there;  the  East  End  Road  goes 
over  somewhere  among  the  northern  hills  and  splits 
up  into  innumerable  side  roads,  roads  that  lead  to 
doorways,  roads  that  run  into  footpaths  and  dwin- 
dle away  in  despair,  roads  of  which  it  must  be  said 
with  sorrow  that  there  was  doubt  in  Salem  whether 
they  ever  ended  or  led  anywhere.  Hence  arose  the 
tale  that  all  things  which  were  strange  and  new, 
at  least  all  things  which  were  to  be  feared,  came 
into  Salem  over  the  East  End  Road;  just  as  in 
Hagar  they  came  down  from  the  Cattle  Ridge  and 
went  away  to  the  south  beyond  Windless  Moun- 
tain. 

Along   this   road,  a  month  later   than   the   last 

incident,  came  the  black-bearded  peddler  with  his 

pack,  whistling;  and  indeed  his  pack,  though  large, 

seemed  to  weigh  singularly  little;  also  the  peddler 

178 


TWO     ROADS    THAT    MEET    IN     SALEM 

seemed  to  be  in  a  very  peaceful  frame  of  mind. 
And  along  this  road  too  came  the  plodding  gray 
horse,  with  the  serious  boy  driving,  and  the  yellow 
dog  in  the  rear;  all  at  a  pace  which  slowly  but 
surely  overtook  the  peddler.  The  peddler,  reaching 
a  quiet  place  where  a  bank  of  ferns  bordered  the 
brushwood,  sat  down  and  waited,  whistling.  The 
dog,  catching  sight  of  him,  came  forward  with  a 
rush,  wagging  the  back  end  of  himself;  and  Billy, 
the  gray  horse,  came  gently  to  a  standstill. 

"How  goes  it?""  said  the  peddler,  pausing  a  mo- 
ment in  his  whistling.  "Pretty  good?" 

"Mostly." 

The  peddler  took  a  cigar-case  from  his  pocket, 
a  cigar  wrapped  in  tin-foil  from  the  case,  and  lay 
back  lazily  among  the  ferns,  putting  his  long  thin 
hands  behind  his  head.  "My  notion  was,"  he  mur- 
mured, "that  it  would  take  a  month,  a  month  would 
be  enough." 

The  serious  boy  said  nothing,  but  sat  with  his  chin 
on  his  fists  looking  down  the  road  meditatively. 

"My  notion  was,"  went  on  the  peddler,  "that  a 
doctor's  boy,  particularly  that  doctor's  boy,  would 
get  into  all  the  best  houses  around — learn  the  lay 
of  things  tolerably  neat.  That  was  my  notion.  Good 
notion,  wasn't  it,  Jack?"  Jack  muttered  a  subdued 
179 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

assent.  The  peddler  glanced  at  him  critically.  "For 
instance  now,  that  big  square  house  on  the  hill 
north  of  Hagar." 

Jack  shook  his  head.  "Nothing  in  it.  Old  man, 
name  Map,  rich  enough,  furniture  done  up  in  cloth, 
valuables  stored  in  Hamilton;  clock  or  two  maybe; 
nothing  in  it." 

"Ah,"  said  the  other,  "just  so;"  and  again  he 
glanced  critically  through  his  half-closed  eyes.  "But 
there  are  others."  Again  Jack  muttered  a  subdued 
assent. 

"Good?" 

"Good  enough." 

The  apparent  peddler  smoked,  quite  at  his  ease 
among  the  ferns,  and  seemed  resolved  that  the  boy 
should  break  the  silence  next. 

"Are  you  banking  on  this  business,  dad?"  said 
the  latter,  finally. 

"Ah — why,  no,  Jack,  not  really.  It's  a  sort  of 
notion,  I  admit."  He  lifted  one  knee  lazily  over  the 
other.  "I'm  not  shoving  you,  Jack.  State  the  case." 
A  long  silence  followed,  to  which  the  conversation 
of  the  two  seemed  well  accustomed. 

"I  never  knew  anything  like  that  down  there," 
nodding  in  the  direction  of  Salem.  "Those  people. 
—It's  different." 

180 


TWO     ROADS    THAT    MEET    IN     SALEM 

"That's  so,"  assented  the  apparent  peddler,  criti- 
cally. "I  reckon  it  is.  We  make  a  point  not  to  be 
low.  Polish  is  our  strong  point,  Jack.  But  we're 
not  in  society.  We  are  not,  in  a  way,  on  speaking 
terms  with  society.11 

"It  ain't  that.11 

"Isn't,11  corrected  the  other,  gently.  "Isn't,  Jack. 
But  I  rather  think  it  is.11 

"Well,11  said  Jack,  "it's  different,  and"— with 
gloomy  decision — "it's  better." 

The  apparent  peddler  whistled  no  more,  but  lay 
back  among  the  ferns  and  gazed  up  at  the  droop- 
ing leaves  overhead.  The  gray  horse  whisked  at  the 
wood-gnats  and  looked  around  now  and  again  in- 
quiringly. The  yellow  dog  cocked  his  head  on  one 
side  as  if  he  had  an  opinion  worth  listening  to  if 
it  were  only  called  for. 

"I  suppose  now,"  said  the  apparent  peddler,  softly, 
"I  suppose  now  theyVe  pretty  cosy.  I  suppose  they 
say  prayers." 

"You  bet." 

"You  mean  that  they  do,  Jack.  I  suppose,"  he 
went  on  dreamily,  "I  suppose  the  old  lady  has  white 
hair  and  knits  stockings." 

"She  does  that,"  said  Jack,  enthusiastically,  "and 
pincushions  and  mats." 

181 


THE     DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

"And  pincushions  and  mats.  That's  so.11 

The  lowing  of  cattle  came  up  to  them  from 
hidden  meadows  below;  for  the  afternoon  was  draw- 
ing near  its  close  and  the  cattle  were  uneasy.  The 
chimney  and  roof  of  a  farmhouse  were  just  visible 
through  a  break  in  the  sloping  woods.  The  smoke 
that  mounted  from  the  chimney  seemed  to  linger 
lovingly  over  the  roof,  like  a  symbol  of  peace,  bless- 
ing the  hearth  from  which  it  came.  The  sentimental 
outcast  puffed  his  excellent  cigar  meditatively,  now 
and  again  taking  it  out  to  remark,  "Pincushions  and 
mats!""  indicating  the  constancy  of  his  thoughts. 

The  serious  boy  motioned  in  the  direction  of 
Salem.  "I  think  I'll  stay  there,"  he  said.  "It's 
better." 

"Reckon  I  know  how  you  feel,  Jack, — know  how 
you  feel.  Give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage,  and 
that  sort  of  thing."  After  a  longer  silence  still,  he 
sat  up  and  threw  away  his  cigar.  "Well,  Jack,  if  you 
see  your  way — a — if  I  were  you,  Jack,"  he  said 
slowly,  "I  wouldn't  go  half  and  half;  I'd  go  the 
whole  bill.  I  'd  turn  on  the  hose  and  inquire  for  the 
ten  commandments,  that's  what  I'd  do."  He  came 
and  leaned  lazily  on  the  carriage  wheel.  "That  isn't 
very  plain.  It's  like  this.  You  don't  exactly  abolish 
the  old  man;  you  just  imagine  him  comfortably 

182 


TWO    ROADS    THAT    MEET    IN    SALEM 

buried;  that's  it,  comfortably  buried,  with  an  epi- 
taph,— flourishy,  Jack,  flourishy,  stating" — here  his 
eyes  roamed  meditatively  along  Billy's  well-padded 
spine — "stating,  in  a  general  way,  that  he  made  a 
point  of  polish.1' 

The  serious  boy's  lip  trembled  slightly.  He  seemed 
to  be  seeking  some  method  of  expression.  Finally 
he  said:  "I'll  trade  knives  with  you,  dad.  It's  six 
blades";  and  the  two  silently  exchanged  knives. 

Then  Billy,  the  gray  horse,  plodded  down  the 
hill  through  the  woods,  and  the  apparent  peddler 
plodded  up.  At  one  turn  in  the  road  can  be  seen 
the  white  houses  of  Salem  across  the  valley ;  and  here 
he  paused,  leaning  on  the  single  pole  that  guarded 
the  edge.  After  a  time  he  roused  himself  again, 
swung  his  pack  to  his  shoulder,  and  disappeared 
over  the  crest  of  the  hill  whistling. 

The  shadows  deepened  swiftly  in  the  woods;  they 
lengthened  in  the  open  valley,  filling  the  hollows, 
climbed  the  hill  to  Salem,  and  made  dusky  Dr. 
Wye's  little  porch  and  his  tiny  office  duskier  still. 
The  office  was  so  tiny  that  portly  Judge  Carter  of 
Gilead  seemed  nearly  to  fill  it,  leaving  small  space 
for  the  doctor.  For  this  or  some  other  reason  the 
doctor  seemed  uncomfortable,  quite  oppressed  and 

183 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

borne  down,  and  remonstrating  with  the  oppression. 
The  judge  was  a  man  of  some  splendor,  with  gold 
eye-glasses  and  cane. 

"There  really  is  no  doubt  about  it,""  he  was  say- 
ing, with  a  magnificent  finger  on  the  doctor's  knee, 
"no  doubt  at  all." 

The  conversation  seemed  to  be  most  absorbing. 
The  doctor  pulled  his  beard  abstractedly  and 
frowned. 

The  serious  boy  drove  by  outside  in  the  dusk,  and 
after  a  while  came  up  from  the  barn.  He  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  porch  to  think  things  over,  and 
the  judge's  voice  rolled  on  oracularly.  Jack  hardly 
knew  yet  what  his  thoughts  were;  and  this  was  a 
state  of  mind  that  he  was  not  accustomed  to  put  up 
with,  because  muddle-headedness  was  a  thing  that 
he  especially  despised.  "You  don't  exactly  abolish 
the  old  man,"  he  kept  hearing  the  peddler  say;  "you 
just  imagine  him  comfortably  buried — with  an  epi- 
taph — flourishy — stating — " 

"Clever,  very,"  said  the  judge.  "Merri wether  was 
telling  me — won't  catch  him,  too  clever — Merri- 
wether  says — remarkable — interesting  scamp,  very." 
The  doctor  growled  some  inaudible  objection. 

"Why  did  he  show  himself!"  exclaimed  the  judge. 
"Why,  see  here.  Observe  the  refined  cleverness  of  it! 
184 


TWO     ROADS    THAT    MEET    IN    SALEM 

It  roused  your  interest,  didn't  it?  It  was  unique, 
amusing.  Chances  are  ten  to  one  you  would  n't  have 
taken  the  boy  without  it.  Why,  look  here — " 

"Stuff!" — Here  the  doctor  raised  his  voice  an- 
grily. "The  boy  ran  away  from  him,  of  course.11 

"Maybe,  doctor,  maybe,1'  said  the  judge,  sooth- 
ingly. "But  there  are  other  things — looks  shady — 
consider  the  man  is  known.  Dangerous,  doctor,  dan- 
gerous, very.  You  ought  to  be  careful.11  Then  the 
words  were  a  mere  murmur. 

Jack  sat  still  on  the  porch,  with  his  chin  on  his 
hands.  Overhead  the  night-hawks  called,  and  now 
and  then  one  came  down  with  a  whiz  of  swooping 
wings.  Presently  he  heard  the  chairs  scrape;  he  rose, 
slipped  around  to  the  back  porch  and  into  the 
kitchen. 

The  little  bronze  clock  in  the  dining-room  had 
just  told  its  largest  stint  of  hours, — and  very  hard 
work  it  made  of  it.  It  was  a  great  trial  to  the  clock 
to  have  to  rouse  itself  and  bluster  so.  It  did  not 
mind  telling  time  in  a  quiet  way.  But  then,  every 
profession  has  its  trials.  It  settled  itself  again  to 
stare  with  round,  astonished  face  at  the  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

Jack  sat  at  the  table  by  a  dim  lamp,  the  house 
185 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

dark  and  silent  all  around  him,  writing  a  letter.  He 
leaned  his  head  down  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
paper. 

"  I  herd  him  and  you,"  he  wrote  in  a  round  hand 
with  many  blots.  "I  lied  and  so  did  he  I  mean 
dad.  I  can  lie  good.  Dad  sed  I  must  learn  the  ten 
comandments.  The  ten  comandments  says  diferent 
things.  You  neednt  be  afrad.  There  dont  anithing 
happen  cep  to  me.  I  do  love  Mother  Wye  tru."  The 
clock  went  on  telling  the  time  in  the  way  that  it 
liked  to  do,  tick -tick-tick.  Overhead  the  doctor  slept 
a  troubled  sleep,  and  in  Gilead  Judge  Carter  slept  a 
sound  sleep  of  good  digestion. 

Far  off  the  Salem  Road  led  westward  straight  to 
Hagar,  and  stopped,  and  the  moonlight  lay  over  it 
all  the  way;  but  the  East  End  Road  led  through  the 
shadows  and  deep  night  over  among  the  northern 
hills,  and  split  up  into  many  roads,  some  of  which 
did  not  seem  ever  to  end,  or  lead  anywhere. 

Jack  dropped  from  the  window  skilfully,  noise- 
lessly, and  slid  away  in  the  moonlight.  At  the 
Corners  he  did  not  hesitate,  but  took  the  East  End 
Road. 


186 


A    VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 


A    VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 


HF.  bore  the  name  of  Adam  Wick.  There  seemed 
to  be  something  primitive  in  his  temperament  to 
fit  it.  By  primitive  we  mean  of  such  times  as  may 
have  furnished  single-eyed  passions  that  did  not 
argue.  He  was  a  small,  thin,  stooping  man,  with  a 
sharp  nose  and  red-lidded  eyes.  Sarah  Wick,  his 
daughter,  was  a  dry-faced  woman  of  thirty,  and 
lived  with  him. 

His  house  stood  on  a  hill  looking  over  the  village 
of  Preston  Plains,  which  lay  in  a  flat  valley.  In  the 
middle  of  the  village  the  church-steeple  shot  up 
tapering  and  tall. 

It  was  a  bickering  community.  The  church  was 
a  centre  of  interest.  The  outlines  of  the  building 
were  clean  and  shapely,  but  in  detail  it  stood  for  a 
variety  of  opinions.  A  raised  tracery  ran  along  the 
pseudo-classic  frieze  of  its  front,  representing  a  rope 
of  flowers  with  little  cupids  holding  up  the  loops. 
They  may  have  been  cherubs.  The  community  had 
quarrelled  about  them  long  ago  when  the  church 
was  building,  but  that  subject  had  given  way  to 
other  subjects. 

189 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

The  choir  gallery  bulged  over  the  rear  seats,  as  if 
to  dispute  the  relative  importance  of  the  pulpit.  That 
was  nothing.  But  it  needed  bracing.  The  committee 
decided  against  a  single  pillar,  and  erected  two,  one 
of  them  in  the  middle  of  Adam  Wick's  pew. 

Adam  looked  at  things  simply.  It  seemed  to  his 
simplicity  that  the  community  had  conspired  to  do 
him  injustice.  The  spirit  of  nonconformity  stirred 
within  him.  He  went  to  the  minister. 

"Andrew  Hill,  nor  any  other  man,  nor  commit- 
teeman's  got  no  rights  in  my  pew." 

The  minister  was  dignified. 

"The  pew,  Mr.  Wick,  belongs  to  the  church." 

"No  such  thing!  I  sat  twenty -four  years  in  that 
pew." 

"But  that,  though  very  creditable — " 

"No  such  thing!  I'll  have  no  post  in  my  pew, 
for  Andrew  Hill  nor  no  minister  neither." 

"Mr.  Wick—" 

"You  take  that  post  out  o'  my  pew." 

He  stumped  out  of  the  minister's  green-latticed 
doorway  and  down  the  gravel  path.  His  eyes  on 
either  side  of  his  sharp  nose  were  like  those  of  an 
angry  hawk,  and  his  stooping  shoulders,  seen  from 
behind,  resembled  the  huddled  back  of  the  hawk, 
caged  and  sullen. 

190 


A     VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 

The  minister  watched  him.  Properly  speaking,  a 
primitive  nature  is  an  unlimited  monarchy  where 
ego  is  king,  but  the  minister's  reflections  did  not 
run  in  these  terms.  He  did  not  even  go  so  far  as 
to  wonder  whether  such  primitive  natures  did  not 
render  the  current  theory  of  a  church  inaccurate. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  wonder  what  Adam  Wick 
would  do. 

One  dark,  windy  night,  near  midnight,  Adam 
Wick  climbed  in  at  the  vestibule  window  of  the 
church,  and  chopped  the  pillar  in  two  with  an  axe. 
The  wind  wailed  in  the  belfry  over  his  head.  The 
blinds  strained,  as  if  hands  were  plucking  at  them 
from  without.  The  sound  of  his  blows  echoed  in 
the  cold,  empty  building,  as  if  some  personal  devil 
were  enjoying  the  sacrilege.  Adam  was  a  simple- 
minded  man;  he  realized  that  he  was  having  a  good 
time  himself. 

It  was  three  days  before  the  church  was  opened. 
What  may  have  been  Adam's  primitive  thoughts, 
moving  secretively  among  his  townsmen?  Then  a 
sudden  rumor  ran,  a  cry  went  up,  of  horror,  of  ac- 
cusation, of  the  lust  of  strife.  Before  the  accusation 
Adam  did  not  hesitate  to  make  his  defiance  perfect. 
The  primitive  mind  was  not  in  doubt.  With  a  blink 
of  his  red  eyelids,  he  answered: 
191 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

"You  tell  Andrew  Hill,  don't  you  put  another 
post  in  my  pew.11 

A  meeting  was  held;  a  majority  voted  enthusi- 
astically to  strike  his  name  from  the  rolls  for  un- 
christian behavior  and  to  replace  the  pillar.  A 
minority  declared  him  a  wronged  man.  That  was 
natural  enough  in  Preston  Plains.  But  Adam  Wick's 
actions  at  this  point  were  thought  original  and 
effective  by  every  one. 

He  sat  silently  through  the  proceedings  in  the 
pew  with  the  hacked  pillar,  his  shoulders  hunched, 
his  sharp  eyes  restless. 

"Mr.  Wick,"  said  the  minister,  sternly,  "have 
you  anything  to  say?11 

Adam  rose. 

"I  put  fifty-six  dollars  into  this  meetinghouse. 
Any  man  deny  that?11 

No  man  denied  it. 

"Humph!11  said  Adam. 

He  took  the  hymn-book  from  the  rack,  lifted 
the  green  cushion  from  the  seat,  threw  it  over  his 
shoulder,  and  walked  out. 

No  man  spoke  against  it. 

"There's  no  further  business  before  this  meet- 
ing,11 said  Chairman  Hill. 


192 


A    VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 

It  was  a  Sunday  in  August  and  nearly  noon. 
From  the  side  porch  of  Adam  Wick's  house  on  the 
hill  the  clustered  foliage  of  the  village  below  was 
the  centre  of  the  landscape.  The  steeple  and  ridge- 
pole of  the  church  rose  out  of  the  centre  of  the 
foliage. 

The  landscape  could  not  be  fancied  without  the 
steeple.  The  dumb  materials  of  the  earth,  as  well  as 
the  men  who  walk  upon  it,  acquire  habits.  You 
could  read  on  the  flat  face  of  the  valley  that  it  had 
grown  accustomed  to  Preston  Plains  steeple. 

On  the  side  porch  stood  a  long,  high-backed 
bench.  It  was  a  close  imitation  of  the  pews  in  the 
church  below  among  the  foliage,  with  the  long 
green  cushion  on  the  seat  and  a  chair  facing  it  with 
a  hymn-book  on  it.  Adam  sat  motionless  on  the 
bench.  His  red-lidded  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on 
the  steeple. 

A  hen  with  a  brood  of  downy  yellow  chickens 
pecked  about  the  path.  A  turkey  strutted  up  and 
down.  The  air  was  sultry,  oppressive.  A  low  murmur 
of  thunder  mingled  with  the  sleepy  noises  of  creak- 
ing crickets  and  clucking  hen. 

Adam  Wick's  bench  and  rule  of  Sabbath  observ- 
ance had  been  common  talk  in  Preston  Plains.  But 
it  had  grown  too  familiar,  for  subjects  of  dispute 
193 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

ever  gave  way  there  to  other  subjects.  Some  one  said 
it  was  pathetic.  The  minority  thought  it  a  happy 
instance  to  throw  in  the  face  of  the  bigoted  major- 
ity, that  they  had  driven  from  the  church  a  man  of 
religious  feeling.  The  minister  had  consulted  An- 
drew Hill,  that  thick-set  man  with  the  dry  mouth 
and  gray  chin-beard. 

"Not  take  out  that  pillar!"  said  Andrew  Hill. 

"Ah,""  said  the  minister,  "I'm  afraid  that 
wouldn't  do.  It  would  seem  like — " 

"I  wouldn't  move  that  pillar  if  the  whole  town 
was  sidin'  with  him." 

"Oh,  now—" 

"Not  while  I  'm  alive.  Adam  Wick,  he 's  obstinate." 

Mr.  Hill  shut  his  mouth  grimly. 

"Religious!  Humph!  Maybe  he  is." 

The  minister  moved  away.  They  were  a  stiff- 
necked  people,  but  after  all  he  felt  himself  to  be 
one  of  them.  It  was  his  own  race.  He  knew  how 
Andrew  Hill  felt,  as  if  something  somewhere  within 
him  were  suddenly  clamped  down  and  riveted.  He 
understood  Adam  too,  in  his  private  pew  on  the  side 
porch,  the  hymn-book  on  the  chair,  his  eyes  on  Pres- 
ton Plains  steeple,  fixed  and  glittering.  He  thought, 
"  We  don't  claim  to  be  altogether  lovely." 

Adam  was  in  his  own  eyes  without  question  a  just 
194 


A    VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 

man  suffering  injustice.  His  fathers  in  their  Genesis 
and  Exodus  had  so  suffered,  faced  stocks,  pillory,  the 
frowning  edge  of  the  wilderness,  and  possessed  their 
souls  with  the  same  grim  congratulation.  No  genera- 
tion ever  saw  visions  and  sweat  blood,  and  left  a 
moderate-minded  posterity.  Such  martyrs  were  not 
surer  that  the  God  of  Justice  stood  beside  them 
than  Adam  was  sure  of  the  injustice  of  that  pillar 
in  that  pew,  nor  more  resolved  that  neither  death 
nor  hell  should  prevail  against  the  faithfulness  of 
their  protest. 

And  the  turkey  strutted  in  the  yard,  the  chickens 
hurried  and  peeped,  the  thunder  muttered  at  intervals 
as  if  the  earth  were  breathing  heavily  in  its  hot  sleep. 

The  church-bell  rang  for  the  end  of  the  morning 
service.  It  floated  up  from  the  distance,  sweet  and 
plaintive. 

Adam  rose  and  carried  the  cushion,  chair,  and 
hymn-book  into  the  house. 

The  storm  was  rising,  darkening.  It  crouched  on 
the  hills.  It  seemed  to  gather  its  garments  and  gird 
its  loins,  to  breathe  heavily  with  crowded  hate,  to 
strike  with  daggers  of  lightning  right  and  left. 

Adam  came  out  again  and  sat  on  the  bench.  The 
service  being  over,  it  was  no  longer  a  pew. 

Carriages,  one  after  another,  drove  out  of  the  foli- 
195 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

age  below,  and  along  the  five  roads  that  ran  out  of 
Preston  Plains  between  zigzag  fences  and  low  stone 
walls.  They  were  hurrying,  but  from  that  distance 
they  seemed  to  crawl. 

The  Wick  carriage  came  up  the  hill  and  through 
the  gate — creaking  wheels,  a  shambling  white  horse, 
Sarah  jerking  the  reins  with  monotonous  persistence. 
She  stepped  down  and  dusted  off  her  cotton  gloves. 
Adam  walked  out  to  take  the  horse. 

"Wherefore  do  ye  harden  your  hearts  as  the  Egyp- 
tians and  Pharaoh  hardened  their  hearts?" 

Adam  seemed  puzzled,  blinked  his  eyes,  seemed  to 
study  carefully  the  contents  of  his  own  mind. 

"I  do'  know,"  he  said  at  last. 

"First  Samuel,  seven,  six,""  said  Sarah. 

Adam  led  the  horse  away  despondently.  Halfway 
to  the  barn  he  stopped  and  called  out: 

"Did  he  preach  at  me?" 

"No." 

The  minister  had  chosen  a  text  that  Adam  did 
not  know,  and  made  no  reference  to  him,  although 
the  text  was  a  likely  one.  Adam  felt  both  slights  in 
a  dim  way,  and  resented  them.  He  came  back  to  the 
house  and  sat  in  the  front  room  before  the  window. 

The  valley  was  covered  with  a  thick  veil  of  gray 
rain.  The  black  cloud  above  it  cracked  every  mo- 
196 


A     VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 

ment  with  sudden  explosions,  the  echoes  of  them 
tumbling  clumsily  among  the  hills.  Preston  Plains 
steeple  faded  away  and  the  foliage  below  it  became 
a  dim  blot.  A  few  drops  struck  the  window-pane  at 
Adam's  face,  then  a  rush  and  tumult  of  rain.  Dim- 
mer still  the  valley,  but  the  lightning  jabbed  down 
into  it  incessantly,  unseen  batteries  playing  attack 
and  defence  over  Preston  Plains  steeple. 

It  was  a  swift,  sudden  storm,  come  and  gone  like 
a  burst  of  passion.  The  imminent  crack  and  crash  of 
the  thunder  ceased,  and  only  rumblings  were  heard, 
mere  memories,  echoes,  or  as  if  the  broken  fragments 
of  the  sky  were  rolling  to  and  fro  in  some  vast  sea- 
wash.  The  valley  and  the  village  trees  came  slowly 
into  view. 

"Dinner's  ready,"  said  Sarah,  in  the  next  room. 

She  had  a  strident  voice,  and  said  dinner  was 
ready  as  if  she  expected  Adam  to  dispute  it.  There 
was  no  answer  from  the  window. 

"Pa!  Aren't  you  comin'?" 

No  answer.  Sarah  came  to  the  door. 

"Pa!" 

His  face   was  close  to  the  rain -washed  window- 
pane.   Something  rattled   in  his  throat.   It  seemed 
like  a  suppressed  chuckle.  He  rested  his  chin  on  his 
hand  and  clawed  it  with  bony  fingers. 
197 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

«Pa!" 

He  turned  on  her  sternly. 

"You  needn't  be  shoutin'  on  the  Lord's  day. 
Meetin'-house  steeple's  a-fire." 

From  Adam  Wick's  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the 
slow  column  of  smoke  rising  and  curling  around  the 
slender  steeple.  But  under  the  foliage  Preston  Plains 
was  in  tumult. 

By  night  the  church  was  saved,  but  the  belfry  was 
a  blackened  ruin  within.  The  bell  had  fallen,  through 
floor,  cross-beams,  and  ceiling,  and  smashed  the  front 
of  the  choir  gallery,  a  mass  of  fallen  pillar,  railing, 
and  broken  plaster  on  the  floor. 

Andrew  Hill  called  a  meeting.  Adam  Wick  came, 
entered  his  cluttered  pew  and  sat  on  the  pillar  that 
lay  prostrate  across  it.  He  perched  on  it  like  a  hawk, 
with  huddled  back  and  red-lidded  eyes  blinking.  It 
was  the  sense  of  the  meeting  that  modern  ideas  de- 
manded the  choir  should  sit  behind  the  minister.  The 
ruined  gallery  must  be  removed.  Adam  Wick  rose. 

"You've  got  no  place  in  this  meetin',"  said  An- 
drew Hill.  "Set  down." 

Adam  kept  his  place  scornfully. 

"Can't  I  subscribe  twenty  dollars  to  this  church?" 

The  chairman  stroked  his  beard  and  a  gleam  of 
acrid  humor  lit  his  face  for  a  moment. 

198 


A    VISIBLE    JUDGMENT 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  suppose  you  can." 

And  the  eyes  of  all  present  looked  on  Adam  Wick 
favorably. 

The  minister  rose  to  speak  the  last  word  of  peace. 

"My  friends,  the  Lord  did  it.  He  is  righteous — " 

"That's  my  idea!"  said  Adam  Wick,  like  a  hawk 
on  his  fallen  pillar,  red-lidded,  complacent.  "He  did 
what  was  right." 

The  minister  coughed,  hesitated,  and  sat  down. 
Andrew  Hill  glowered  from  his  chair. 

"There  's  no  further  business  before  this  meetin'." 


199 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 


JL  HE  old  book -shop  on  Cripple  Street  in  the  city  of 
Hamilton  was  walled  to  its  dusky  ceiling  with  books. 
Books  were  stacked  on  the  floor  like  split  wood,  with 
alleys  between.  The  long  table  down  the  centre  was 
piled  with  old  magazines  and  the  wrecks  of  paper- 
covered  novels.  School  arithmetics  and  dead  theolo- 
gies; Annuals  in  faded  gilt,  called  "Keepsake,'1  or 
"Friendship's  Offering";  little  leathern  nubbins  of 
books  from  the  last  century,  that  yet  seemed  less  an- 
tique than  the  Annuals  which  counted  no  more  than 
forty  years — so  southern  and  early -passing  was  the 
youth  of  the  Annual;  Bohn's  translations,  the  useful 
and  despised;  gaudy,  glittering  prints  of  the  poets 
and  novelists;  all  were  crowded  together  without 
recognition  of  caste,  in  a  common  Bohemia.  Finding 
a  book  in  that  mystical  chaos  seemed  to  establish  a 
right  to  it  of  first  discovery.  The  pretty  girl,  who  sat 
in  one  of  the  dim  windows  and  kept  the  accounts, 
looked  Oriental  but  not  Jewish,  and  wore  crimson 
ribbons  in  her  black  hair  and  at  her  throat.  She  read 
one  of  the  Annuals,  or  gazed  through  the  window 
at  Cripple  Street.  A  show-case  in  the  other  window 
203 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

contained   stamp  collections,  Hindoo,  Chinese,  and 
Levantine  coinage. 

Far  back  in  the  shop  a  daring  explorer  might 
come  upon  a  third  window,  gray,  grimy,  beyond 
which  lay  the  unnamable  backyards  between  Crip- 
ple and  Academy  Streets.  It  could  not  be  said  to 
"open  on"  them,  for  it  was  never  opened,  or  "give 
a  view"  of  them,  being  thick  with  gray  dust.  But 
if  one  went  up  to  it  and  looked  carefully,  there  in 
the  dim  corner  might  be  seen  an  old  man  with 
a  long  faded  black  coat,  rabbinical  beard,  dusky, 
transparent  skin,  and  Buddha  eyes,  blue,  faint,  far 
away,  self-abnegating,  such  as  under  the  Bo-tree 
might  have  looked  forth  in  meek  abstraction  on 
the  infinities  and  perceived  the  Eightfold  Princi- 
ple. It  was  always  possible  to  find  Mr.  Barria  by 
steering  for  the  window.  So  appeared  the  old  book- 
shop on  Cripple  Street,  Mr.  Barria,  the  dealer,  and 
his  granddaughter,  Janey. 

Nature  made  Cripple  Street  to  be  calm  and  dull; 
for  the  hand  of  man,  working  through  generations, 
is  the  hand  of  nature,  as  surely  as  in  nature  the  ori- 
ole builds  its  nest  or  the  rootlets  seek  their  proper 
soil.  Cripple  Street  ran  from  Coronet  to  Main  Street 
and  its  paving  was  bad.  There  were  a  few  tailors  and 
bookbinders,  a  few  silent,  clapboarded  houses. 
204 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

But  two  doors  from  the  corner  on  Coronet  Street 
stood  Station  No.  4,  of  the  Fire  Brigade,  and  Crip- 
ple Street  was  the  nearest  way  to  Main  Street, 
whither  No.  4  was  more  likely  to  be  called  than 
elsewhere.  So  that,  though  nature  made  Cripple 
Street  to  be  calm  and  dull,  No.  4,  Fire  Brigade, 
sometimes  passed  it,  engine,  ladder,  and  hose,  in  the 
splendor  of  the  supernatural,  the  stormy  pageantry 
of  the  gods;  and  one  Tommy  Durdo  drove  the  en- 
gine. 

Durdo  first  came  into  Mr.  Barria's  shop  in  search 
of  a  paper-covered  novel  with  a  title  promising 
something  wild  and  belligerent.  It  was  a  rainy,  dis- 
mal day,  and  Janey  sat  among  the  dust  and  refuse 
of  forgotten  centuries. 

"My  eyes!"  he  thought.  "She's  a  peach." 

He  lost  interest  in  any  possible  belligerent  novel, 
gazed  at  her  with  the  candor  of  his  youthfulness, 
and  remarked,  guilefully: 

"I  bet  you've  seen  me  before  now." 

"You  drive  the  engine,"  said  Janey,  with  shining 
eyes. 

"Why,  this  is  my  pie,"  thought  Durdo,  and  sat 

down  by  her  on  a  pile  of  old  magazines.  He  was 

lank,    muscular,    with    a    wide    mouth,    lean   jaws, 

turn-up  nose,  and  joyful  eyes.  The  magazines  con- 

205 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

tained  variations  on  the  loves  of  Edwards,  Eleanors, 
and  other  people,  well-bred,  unfortunate,  and  pos- 
sessed of  sentiments.  Durdo  was  not  well-bred,  and 
had  not  a  presentable  sentiment  in  his  recollection. 
He  had  faith  in  his  average  luck,  and  went  away 
from  Mr.  Barria's  shop  at  last  with  a  spot  in  the 
tough  texture  of  his  soul  that  felt  mellow. 

"J.  Barria,  bookdealer,"  he  read  from  the  sign. 
"J!  That's  Janey,  ain't  it?  Hold  on.  She  ain't  the 
bookdealer.  She  ain't  any  ten-cent  novel  either. 
She 's  a  Rushy  bound,  two  dollar  and  a  half  a  copy, 
with  a  dedication  on  the  fly-leaf,  which" — Tommy 
stopped  suddenly  and  reflected — "which  it  might 
be  dedicated  to  Tommy." 

It  came  near  to  being  a  sentiment.  The  possibility 
of  such  a  thing  rising  from  within  him  seemed  im- 
pressive. He  walked  back  to  No.  4  thoughtfully,  and 
thrust  himself  into  a  fight  with  Hamp  Sharkey,  in 
which  it  was  proved  that  Hamp  was  the  better  man. 
Tommy  regained  his  ordinary  reckless  cheerfulness. 
But  when  a  man  is  in  a  state  of  mind  that  it  needs 
a  stand-up  and  knock-down  fight  to  introduce  cheer- 
fulness, he  cannot  hope  to  conceal  his  state  of  mind. 

Cripple  Street  drowsed  in  the  sunshine  one  August 
afternoon.  A  small  boy  dug  bricks  out  of  the  side- 
walk with  a  stick.  It  seemed  to  emphasize  the  indif- 
206 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

ferent  calm  that  no  one  took  that  interest  in  Cripple 
Street  to  come  and  stop  him.  The  clangor  of  the 
fire-bells  broke  across  the  city.  For  a  moment  the 
silence  in  Cripple  Street  seemed  more  deathly  than 
before.  Then  the  doors  of  the  tailors  and  book- 
binders flew  open.  The  Fire  Company  came  with 
leap  and  roar,  ladder,  engine,  and  hose,  rattle  of 
wheels  and  thud  of  steam.  Passing  Mr.  Barria's 
Durdo  turned  his  head,  saw  Janey  in  the  door,  and 
beamed  on  her. 

"Hooray,"  he  shouted. 

"Ifs  Tommy's  girl,"  thundered  Hamp  Sharkey, 
from  the  top  of  his  jingling  ladders.  Fire  Brigade 
No.  4  cheered,  waved  its  helmet,  wherever  it  had  a 
hand  free,  and  in  a  moment  was  gone,  leaving  the 
drift  of  its  smoke  in  the  air,  the  tremble  of  its  pass- 
ing, and  Janey  flushed  and  thrilled.  Hook  and  lad- 
der and  all  had  hailed  her  with  honor  as  Tommy's 
girl.  A  battalion  of  cavalry,  with  her  lover  at  the 
head,  dashing  up  to  salute,  say,  her  battlemented 
or  rose-embowered  window — both  terms  occur  in  the 
Annuals — and  galloping  away  to  the  wars,  might 
have  been  better  theoretically,  but  Janey  was  satis- 
fied. She  had  no  defence  against  such  battery.  Power, 
daring,  and  danger  were  personified  in  Tommy.  He 
had  brought  them  all  to  her  feet.  This  it  was  to 
207 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

live  and  be  a  woman.  She  turned  back  into  the  dim 
shop,  her  eyes  shining.  The  backs  of  the  dusty  books 
seemed  to  quiver  and  glow,  even  those  containing 
arithmetic,  dead  philosophies,  and  other  cool  abstrac- 
tions, as  if  they  forgot  their  figures  and  rounded 
periods,  and  thought  of  the  men  who  wrote  them, 
how  these  once  were  young. 

Durdo  found  it  possible,  by  spending  his  off  hours 
in  Mr.  Banna's  shop,  to  keep  cheerful  without  fight- 
ing Hamp  Sharkey.  A  row  now  and  then  with  a 
smaller  man  than  Hamp  was  enough  to  satisfy  the 
growing  mellowness  of  his  soul.  His  off  hours  began 
at  four.  He  passed  them  among  the  Annuals  and 
old  magazines  in  a  state  of  puzzled  and  flattered 
bliss.  He  fell  so  far  from  nature  as  to  read  the  An- 
nuals where  Janey  directed,  to  conclude  that  what 
was  popularly  called  "fun""  was  vanity  and  dust  in 
the  mouth;  that  from  now  on  he  would  be  decent, 
and  that  any  corner  or  hole  in  the  ground  which 
contained  Janey  and  Tommy  would  suit  him  forever. 
No  doubt  he  was  wrong  there. 

Mr.  Barria's  memories  of  all  that  had  befallen 

him  within  or  without,  hi  the  journey  of  this  life, 

before  his  entry  on  the  Path  of  Quietness,  and  his 

consciousness  of  all  external  objects  and  occurrences 

208 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

since,  were  clear  enough,  but  only  as  little  white 
clouds  in  the  open  sky  are  clear,  whose  business  it 
is  to  be  far  away  and  trouble  us  with  no  insistent 
tempest.  They  never  entered  the  inner  circle  of  his 
meditation.  They  appeared  to  be  distant  things.  He 
had  no  sense  of  contact  with  them.  His  abstractions 
had  formed  a  series  of  concentric  spheres  about  him. 
In  some  outer  sphere  lay  a  knowledge  of  the  value  of 
books  as  bought  and  sold,  which  enabled  him  to  boy 
and  sell  them  with  indifferent  profit,  but  it  entered 
his  central  absorption  no  more  than  the  putting  on 
and  off  of  his  coat. 

He  was  not  absorbed  in  books.  He  did  not  seem 
to  care  for  them,  beyond  the  fourscore  or  more  worn 
volumes  that  were  piled  about  his  table  by  the  gray 
window,  many  of  them  in  tattered  paper  covers 
bearing  German  imprints,  some  lately  rebound  by  a 
Cripple  Street  bookbinder.  He  did  not  care  for  his- 
tory or  geography,  not  even  his  own.  He  did  not 
care  where  he  was  born  or  when,  where  he  was  now, 
or  how  old. 

Once — whether  forty  years  gone  or  four  hundred, 
would  have  seemed  to  him  a  question  of  the  vaguest 

*  O 

import — he  had  taught  Arabic  and  Greek  in  a  uni- 
versity town,  which  looks  off  to  mountains  that  in 
their  turn  look  off  to  the  Adriatic  Sea.  There  was 
£09 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

a  child,  a  smaller  Julian  Barria.  Somewhere  about 
this  time  and  place  he  began  explorations  in  more 
distant  Eastern  languages.  The  date  was  unnoted, 
obscure,  traditional.  The  interest  in  language  soon 
disappeared.  It  was  a  period  of  wonder  and  search- 
ing. After  the  moral  fierceness  of  the  Arab  and 
Mohammedan,  the  Hindoo's  and  Buddhist's  calm 
negations  and  wide  mental  spaces  first  interested 
him  by  contrast,  then  absorbed  him.  He  began  to 
practise  the  discipline,  the  intense  and  quiet  cen- 
tring on  one  point,  till  the  sense  of  personality 
should  slip  away  and  he  and  that  point  be  one. 
There  was  no  conviction  or  conversion,  for  the  ques- 
tion never  seemed  put  to  him,  or  to  be  of  any  value, 
whether  one  thing  was  true  and  another  not  true. 
But  the  interest  gradually  changed  to  a  personal 
issue.  All  that  he  now  heard  and  saw  and  spoke 
to,  objects  in  rest  or  in  motion,  duties  that  called 
for  his  performance,  became  not  so  much  vaguer  in 
outline  as  more  remote  in  position.  In  comparison 
with  his  other  experiences  they  were  touched  with  a 
faint  sense  of  unreality.  The  faces  of  other  men  were 
changed  in  his  eyes.  He  sometimes  noticed  and  won- 
dered, passingly,  that  they  seemed  to  see  no  change 
in  him,  or  if  any  change,  it  was  one  that  drew  them 
more  than  formerly  to  seek  his  sympathy.  He  ob- 
210 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

served  himself  listening  to  intimate  confessions  with 
a  feeling  of  patient  benevolence  that  cost  him  no 
effort,  and  seemed  to  him  something  not  quite  be- 
longing to  him  as  a  personal  virtue,  but  which 
apparently  satisfied  and  quieted  the  troubled  souls 
that  sought  him. 

About  this  later  time — a  reference  to  the  histo- 
ries would  fix  the  date  at  1848 — a  civil  war  swept 
the  land,  and  the  University  was  closed.  The  younger 
Julian  Barria  was  involved  in  the  fall  of  the  revo- 
lutionists and  fled  from  the  country.  The  late  teacher 
of  Greek  and  Arabic  crossed  the  ocean  with  him.  It 
was  a  matter  of  mild  indifference.  He  gave  his  sym- 
pathy to  all,  gently  and  naturally,  but  felt  no  men- 
tal disturbance.  Neither  did  the  change  of  scene 
affect  him.  Everywhere  were  earth  beneath  and  sky 
above,  and  if  not  it  were  no  matter.  Everywhere 
were  men  and  women  and  children,  busy  with  a  mul- 
titude of  little  things,  trembling,  hurrying,  crying 
out  among  anxieties.  It  was  all  one,  clear  enough, 
but  remote,  touched  with  the  same  sense  of  unreal- 
ity, and  like  some  sad  old  song  familiar  in  childhood 
and  still  lingering  in  the  memory. 

The  book-shop  on  Cripple  Street  at  one  time  dealt 
also  in  newspapers  and  cigars.  They  were  more  to 
the  younger  Rama's  talent,  more  to  his  taste  the 
211 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

stirring  talk  of  men  who  live  in  their  own  era  and 
congregate  wherever  there  are  newspapers  and  to- 
bacco. Afterward  he  went  away  into  the  West,  seek- 
ing a  larger  field  for  his  enterprise  than  Cripple 
Street,  and  the  newspaper  and  cigar  business  de- 
clined and  passed  away.  The  show-case  fell  to  other 
uses.  The  elder  Barria  sat  by  the  square  rear  window, 
and  the  gray  dust  gathered  and  dimmed  it.  Ten 
years  flowed  like  an  unruffled  stream;  of  their  con- 
ventional divisions  and  succeeding  events  he  seemed 
but  superficially  conscious.  Letters  came  now  and 
then  from  the  West,  announcing  young  Barria's 
journeys  and  schemes,  his  marriage  in  the  course  of 
enterprise,  finally  his  death.  The  last  was  in  a  sprawl- 
ing hand,  and  said: 

"Jules  missus  is  ded  to  an  thars  a  kid.  Jules  sez 
take  her  to  the  ol  man  Jake  when  ye  go  est  in  the 
spring.  I  am  Jake.  He  is  wooly  in  his  hed  sez  he  but 
he  is  a  good  man  sez  he.  He  got  a  soul  like  Mondays 
washin  on  Tewsday  mornin  sez  he  spekin  in  figgers 
an  menin  you.  Them  was  Jules  last  word."" 

The  large,  bony  person  called  Jake,  slouch-hatted 
and  rough-bearded,  brought  the  child  in  time, 
and  departed,  muttering  embarrassment.  She  stood 
among  the  Annuals  and  old  magazines  with  a  silver 
dollar  from  Jake  clasped  in  each  hand,  and  a  roll  of 
212 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

fifty-dollar  bills  in  her  tiny  pocket,  probably  repre- 
senting young  Barria's  estate  and  the  end  of  Jake's 
duties  as  executor.  She  might  have  been  two  or  three 
years  old.  That  was  not  a  matter  of  interest  to  Mr. 
Barria,  in  whose  conception  the  soul  of  every  crea- 
ture was,  in  a  way,  more  ancient  than  the  hills. 

She  seemed  to  believe  in  his  good  intentions  and 
came  to  him  gravely.  She  did  not  remember  any 
mother,  and  for  her  own  name  it  had  apparently 
been  "chicken11  when  her  father  had  wanted  her, 
and  "scat"  when  he  did  not.  Mr.  Barria  envied  a 
mind  so  untrammelled  with  memories,  and  named 
her  Jhana,  which  means  a  state  of  mystical  medi- 
tation, of  fruitful  tranquillity,  out  of  which  are  said 
to  come  six  kinds  of  supernatural  wisdom  and  ten 
powers.  The  name  sometimes  appeared  to  him  writ- 
ten Dhyana,  when  his  meditations  ran  in  Sanskrit 
instead  of  Pali.  Cripple  Street  called  her  Janey, 
and  avoided  the  question  with  a  wisdom  of  its 
own.  It  had  grown  used  to  Mr.  Barria.  Scholars 
came  from  near-by  universities  to  consult  him,  and 
letters  from  distant  countries  to  Herr,  Monsieur,  or 
Signer  Doctor  Julian  Barria,  but  Cripple  Street, 
if  it  knew  of  the  matter,  had  no  stated  theory  to 
explain  it  and  was  little  curious.  His  hair  and 
beard  grew  white  and  prophetic,  his  skin  more 
213 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

transparent.  A  second  decade  and  half  a  third 
glided  by,  and  Janey  and  Tommy  Durdo  sat  hand 
in  hand  among  the  Annuals. 

"You  must  ask  him,  Tommy,""  Janey  insisted, 
"because  lovers  always  ask  parents.11 

"An1  the  parents  is  horty  and  they  runs  away 
hossback.  Say,  Janey,  if  his  whiskers  gets  horty,  1 11 
faint.  Say,  Janey,  you  got  to  go  "n  ask  my  ma  if 
you  can  have  me.11 

"Would  she  be  haughty?11 

Janey  always  bubbled  with  pleasure,  like  a  meadow 
spring,  when  Tommy  "got  on  a  string,11  as  he  called 
it,  fell  to  jesting  circumstantially.  "You  bet.  She'd 
trun  you  down.  An1  yet  she's  married  second  time, 
she  has,11  he  went  on,  thoughtfully,  "an1  she  didn't 
ask  my  consent,  not  either  time.  I  would  n't  a  given 
it  the  first,  if  she  had,  "cause  dad  was  no  good.  I  'd 
a  been  horty.  I'd  a  told  her  he  waVt  worthy  to 
come  into  any  family  where  I  was  comin1,  which  he 
waVt." 

"Oh,  Tommy!11 

"Yep.  Dad  was  more  nuisance  "ft  mosquitoes.11 

Mr.  Barria  came  out  of  the  distant  retreat  of  his 
meditation  slowly,  and  looked  up.  It  did  not  need 
all  the  subtle  instinct  of  a  pundit  to  read  the  mean- 
ing of  the  two  standing  hand  in  hand  before  him. 
214 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

Tommy  looked  and  felt  as  one  asking  favors  of  a 
spectre,  and  Mr.  Barria  had  fallen  into  a  silent 
habit  of  understanding  people. 

"Little  Jhana  iss  a  woman  so  soon?"  he  said 
softly.  "She  asks  of  her  birthright." 

He  rose  and  looked  quietly,  steadily  at  Tommy, 
who  felt  himself  growing  smaller  inside,  till  his  shoes 
seemed  enormous,  even  his  scalp  loose  and  his  skull 
empty. 

«Mr.—  " 

"It's  Tommy  Durdo,"  said  Janey. 

"You  will  always  remember  to  be  a  little  kinder 
than  seems  necessary,  Mr.  Durdo  ?  It  iss  a  good  rule 
and  very  old." 

"He  didn't  ask  whether  I  was  a  burglar  or  a 
lunatic  by  profesh,"  grumbled  Tommy,  later.  "Ain't 
a  reasonable  interest.  He  might  a  asked  which." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Janey.  "I'll  tell  that." 

There  were  four  rooms  over  the  shop,  where  the 
three  lived  in  great  peace.  Tommy  never  made  out 
whether  Mr.  Barria  thought  him  a  burglar  or  a 
lunatic.  As  regards  Janey  he  felt  more  like  a  bur- 
glar, as  regards  Mr.  Barria  more  like  a  lunatic.  He 
dodged  him  reverentially.  Only  at  the  station,  where 
his  duties  kept  him  for  the  most  part,  did  he  feel 
like  a  natural  person  and  a  fireman.  He  confided 
215 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

in  Hamp  Sharkey,  and  brought  him  to  the  shop 
.and  the  little  up-stairs  sitting-room  for  the  purpose 
of  illustration.  Hamp^s  feelings  resembled  Tommy's. 
They  fell  into  naive  sympathy.  Hamp  admired 
Tommy  for  his  cleverness,  his  limber  tongue,  the 
reckless  daring  of  his  daily  contact  with  Mr.  Barria 
and  Janey,  two  mysteries,  differing  but  both  re- 
mote. She  was  not  like  the  shop-girls  on  Main 
Street.  Hamp  would  carry  away  the  memory  of  her 
shining  eyes  lifted  to  Tommy's  irregular,  somewhat 
impish  face,  and  growl  secretly  over  his  mental  be- 
wilderment. Tommy  admired  Hamp  for  his  height 
and  breadth  and  dull  good-nature. 

On  an  afternoon  in  the  early  summer  the  fire- 
bells  rang  call  after  call.  Engine  No.  4  went  second. 
The  freight  houses  by  the  harbor  were  burning,  and 
the  tall  furniture  factory  that  backed  them.  About 
dusk  the  north  wall  of  the  factory  fell  into  the 
street  with  a  roar  and  rattle  of  flying  bricks. 

The  book-shop  was  dark  in  the  centre.  The  two 
lamps  in  the  front  windows  were  lit,  and  Mr.  Bar- 
ria's  lamp  in  his  hidden  corner. 

It  came  upon  Mr.  Barria  in  his  absorption  that 
there  had  been  a  moment  before  the  sound  of  the 
trampling  of  heavy  feet  in  the  front  of  the  shop, 
216 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

and  a  sudden  cry.  The  trampling  continued  and 
increased.  He  came  forward  with  his  lamp.  Men 
were  crowding  up  the  narrow  stairs  that  began  in 
the  opposite  corner.  One  of  them  swung  a  lantern 
overhead. 

"'Twere  a  brick,"  said  some  one  in  the  dark  cen- 
tre of  the  shop.  "Took  him  over  the  ear.  Dented 
him  in  like  a  plug  hat." 

"Where's  some  water?" 

"Knocked  her  over  quicker  'n  the  brick." 

"Sh!  What's  that?" 

"It's  the  old  man." 

The  light  of  the  lamp,  lifted  in  Mr.  Barria's  hand, 
fell  over  his  head  with  its  flowing  white  hair,  rab- 
binical beard,  and  spectral  face.  Three  men,  one  of 
them  a  policeman,  drew  back  to  one  side  of  the 
shop,  looking  startled  and  feebly  embarrassed.  On 
the  other  side  the  window  lamp  shone  on  Janey, 
where  she  lay  fallen  among  the  old  Annuals. 

He  lifted  her  head  and  muttered: 

"Jhana,  Jhana." 

The  three  men  slipped  through  the  door;  those 
above  came  down;  a  doctor  bustled  in,  satchel  in 
hand,  and  after  him  several  women;  Janey  was  car- 
ried up;  the  shop  was  empty,  except  for  Mr.  Barria 
sitting  by  his  lamp  and  muttering  softly. 
217 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"She  could  not  find  it,  the  peace  that  is  about, 
and  her  little  happiness  it  would  not  stay  beside 
her." 

Presently  the  doctor  spoke  over  him. 

"I  think  Mrs.  Durdo  should  be  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital. St.  James,  you  know.  Ifs  not  far." 

"You  think—" 

"She  is  approaching  confinement,  and  the  shock, 
you  know." 

"Whatever  iss  desirable,  Herr  Doctor.  There  iss 
no  need,  sir,  of  the  economy  in  respect  to — to  what- 
ever iss  desirable." 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Barria.  Quite  right." 

This  was  in  June.  Late  in  the  fall  Janey  came 
back  from  St.  James's  Hospital,  pale,  drooping,  and 
alone. 

She  sat  in  a  black  dress  by  the  front  window  and 
kept  the  accounts  as  before,  gazed  through  the  dim 
panes  at  Cripple  Street,  which  was  made  by  nature 
to  be  dull,  but  read  the  Annuals  no  more,  which 
was  perhaps  a  pity. 

Mr.  Barria  from  the  rear  of  the  shop  watched 

Janey,  sitting  among  the  Annuals  and  looking  out 

on  Cripple  Street.  He  had  not  entered  on  the  Path 

himself  as  a  cure  for  sorrow  and  suffering;  he  had 

218 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

come  to  it  from  another  direction.  Yet  the  first  pur- 
pose of  its  system  had  been  the  solution  of  these. 
It  was  written: 

"Sorrow  and  suffering  will  be  overcome  when  this 
thirst  for  life  is  quenched,  which  makes  for  continu- 
ance, and  that  desire  of  separateness  and  hunger 
after  selfhood  are  put  aside.  They  will  fall  away  as 
drops  from  a  lotus  leaf." 

And  Janey  was  a  type  of  them  as  they  walk 
abroad.  The  measure  of  her  trouble  was  the  meas- 
ure of  the  yearning  and  attainment  that  had  been 
hers. 

"Desire  not  more  then  of  yearning  or  attainment, 
of  sight  or  touch,  of  life  in  variety  or  abundance, 
but  desire  none  at  all,  and  turning  within,  the  dwell- 
ing you  build  there  dwell  in  it,  until  both  desire  and 
separateness  shall  in  turn  disappear." 

He  went  forward  and  drew  a  chair  beside  her. 

"Little  Jhana,"  he  said,  "there  wass  once  a  woman 
and  young  who  brought  her  dead  child  to  the  wisest 
of  men,  and  asked  so  of  him,  'Do  you  know  one 
medicine  that  will  be  good  for  this  child?1  It  wass 
the  custom  then  for  the  patients  or  their  friends  to 
provide  the  herbs  which  the  doctors  require,  so  that 
when  she  asked  what  herbs  he  would  wish,  and  he 
answered,  'Mustard-seed,1  she  promised  with  haste 
219 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

to  bring  it,  for  it  wass  a  common  herb.  'And  it 
must  come,'  he  said,  'only  from  some  house  where 
no  child,  no  hussband,  no  wife,  no  parent,  no  friend 
hass  died.'  Then  she  went  in  great  hope,  carrying 
the  dead  child;  but  everywhere  they  said,  'I  have 
lost,'  and  again,  'We  have  lost,' and  one  said,  'What 
iss  this  you  say;  the  living  are  few  but  the  dead  are 
many.'  She  found  so  no  house  in  that  place  from 
which  she  might  take  the  mustard-seed.  Therefore 
she  buried  the  child,  and  came,  and  she  said,  'I  have 
not  found  it;  they  tell  me  the  living  are  few  and 
the  dead  many.'  And  he  showed  her  how  that  noth- 
ing endured  at  all,  but  changed  and  passed  into 
something  else,  and  each  wass  but  a  changing  part 
of  a  changing  whole,  and  how,  if  one  thought  more 
of  the  whole,  one  so  ceased  to  be  troubled  much  of 
the  parts,  and  sorrow  would  fade  away  quietly." 

Janey  stared  at  him  with  wide,  uncomprehending 
eyes.  There  was  a  certain  comfort  always  in  Mr. 
Barria  himself,  however  oddly  he  might  talk.  She 
dropped  her  head  on  his  knee  and  whispered: 

"I  don't  know  about  all  that.  I  want  Tommy 
and  the  baby." 

He  touched  her  hair  with  thin  fingers  gently. 

"Then  I  wonder,  little  Jhana,"  he  said,  looking 
to  the  magazines  and  Annuals,  "if  you  have  found 
220 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

among  these  one,  a  poet  of  the  English,  who  calls  it 
to  be  better  to  love  and  lose  than  not  to  love." 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  remember."" 

He  smoothed  her  hair  again  and  went  away. 

The  winter  passed  and  the  spring  came  with  a 
scatter  of  sunshine  and  little  showers.  Janey  still 
sat  by  the  window.  If  she  had  been  able  to  general- 
ize, to  see  that  Tommy  and  the  baby  represented 
hunger  after  life,  and  that  this  was  the  root  of  sor- 
row, it  would  perhaps  have  still  seemed  to  her  that 
love  and  loss  were  the  better  choice.  Perhaps  not. 
But  she  could  not  generalize.  Her  thoughts  were 
instincts,  fancies,  and  little  shining  points  of  belief. 
She  could  not  see  herself  in  any  figure  of  speech; 
that  she  was  one  of  a  multitude  of  discordant  notes 
in  the  universe,  whose  business  it  was  to  tune  them- 
selves to  the  key  of  a  certain  large  music  and  dis- 
appear in  its  harmony,  where  alone  was  constant 
happiness.  It  did  not  seem  to  mention  Tommy  or 
the  baby,  and  if  not  there  was  no  point  in  it. 

Spring  slipped  away.  Cripple  Street  was  filled  to 
the  brim  with  bland  summer.  Janey  went  every 
day  to  the  cemetery  with  flowers.  In  September  she 
began  to  come  back  with  flowers  in  her  belt. 

It  was  a  rainy,  dismal  day  in  October.  Mr.  Barria 
had  a  remote  sense  of  hearing  Janey's  laugh.  It 
221 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

seemed  to  him  there  was  a  strange  presence  in  the 
shop.  He  peered  out,  and  saw  Hamp  Sharkey  out- 
lined against  the  window,  large,  slow-moving,  and 
calm,  a  man  who  seemed  to  avoid  all  troubles  of 
the  flesh  by  virtue  of  having  enough  flesh,  and  solid 
bone  beneath.  Janey  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed. 
Around  her  were  the  old  Annuals,  containing  the 
loves  of  Edwards  and  Eleanors. 

Mr.  Barria  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  Some  un- 
traced  suggestion  led  him  to  counting  his  years 
idly.  He  made  them  out  to  be  nearly  eighty.  They 
seemed  suddenly  to  rest  on  his  shoulders  like  a 
weight.  If  one  considered  them  at  all,  they  were 
heavy,  the  years.  And  for  this  human  life,  it  was 
only  intelligible  in  the  abstract.  Of  its  details  there 
were  too  many. 

The  shop  grew  duskier,  and  the  rain  beat  on  the 
windows  with  an  incessant  pattering,  a  multitude  of 
tiny  details,  sounding  accordingly  as  one  might  lis- 
ten. For  either  it  would  seem  a  cheerful,  busy  sound 
of  the  kindly  water,  humble  and  precious  and  clean, 
needful  in  households,  pleasant  in  the  fulness  of 
rivers,  comfortable,  common,  familiar;  or  it  was  the 
low  sigh  of  the  driven  rain,  the  melancholy  iteration 
and  murmur  of  water  circling  like  everything  else 
its  wheel  of  change,  earth  and  ocean  and  sky,  earth 
222 


THE    EMIGRANT    EAST 

and  ocean  and  sky,  and  weary  to  go  back  to  its 
vague,  elemental  vapor,  as  before  the  worlds  were 
shaped. 

Mr.  Barria  turned  back  to  his  volume,  bound  in 
gray  paper  with  a  German  imprint.  To  his  ears  the 
sound  of  the  two  voices  talking  became  as  abstract 
as  the  rain.  Hamp  Sharkey's  laugh  was  like  the  low- 
ing of  a  contented  ox,  and  Janey's,  as  of  old,  like 
the  ripple  of  a  brook  in  a  meadow. 


223 


TOBIN'S    MONUMENT 


TOBIN'S    MONUMENT 


JL  WAS  a  student  then  and  lived  on  the  second  floor 
of  a  brick  dormitory  with  foot-worn  stones  and  sag- 
ging casements.  The  windows  looked  across  one  end 
of  the  campus  on  ivy-covered  walls  of  other  buildings, 
on  a  bronze  statue  whose  head  was  bent  to  indicate 
that  the  person  represented  had  taken  life  seriously 
in  his  day.  Near  at  hand  was  a  street  of  unacademic 
noises,  horse-cars,  shops,  German  bands,  newsboys, 
people  who  bought  and  sold  without  higher  mathe- 
matics and  seldom  mentioned  Horatius  Flaccus. 

But  there  were  drifts  and  eddies  of  the  street  that 
would  turn  aside  and  enter  the  dormitories  commer- 
cially. Tobin  was  one  of  these.  He  came  to  my  door 
by  preference,  because  of  the  large  crack  in  the 
panel.  For,  if  one  entered  the  dormitory  commer- 
cially and  knocked  at  the  doors,  one  never  knew — 
it  might  be  Horatius  Flaccus,  a  volume  of  size  and 
weight.  But  with  a  crack  in  the  panel  one  could 
stand  outside  at  ease  and  dignity,  looking  through 
it,  and  crying,  "JWlas  ca-andyl  Peanuts!11  Then,  if 
anything  arrived,  without  doubt  it  arrived.  A  man 
might  throw  what  he  chose  at  his  own  door. 
227 


THE     DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

He  was  thin  in  the  legs  and  shoulders,  but  round 
of  face  and  marked  there  with  strange  designs  that 
were  partly  a  native  complexion;  but,  if  one  is  a 
candy  boy,  in  constant  company  with  newsboys, 
shiners,  persons  who  carry  no  such  merchandise 
but  are  apt  to  wish  for  it  violently,  one's  complex- 
ion of  course  varies  from  day  to  day. 

"Say,  but  I  hit  him!  He  bled  on  his  do's." 

Tobin  sometimes  made  this  comment,  "him"  mean- 
ing different  persons.  There  was  a  vein  of  fresh  ro- 
mance in  him.  Did  not  Sir  Balin,  or  his  like,  smite 
Sir  Lanceor,  so  that  the  blood  flowed  over  his  hau- 
berk, and  afterward  speak  of  it  with  enthusiasm? 

It  was  a  cold  December  day  in  the  year  188-, 
when  the  snow  whirled  without  rest  from  morning 
chapel  till  the  end  of  the  day  was  signified  by  the 
first  splutter  of  gas-jets.  Among  the  hills  where  I 
was  born  that  office  was  left  to  the  sunsets  and  twi- 
lights, who  had  a  manner  of  doing  it,  a  certain 
broad  nobility,  a  courtesy  and  grace.  "One  of  God's 
days  is  over.  This  is  our  sister,  the  night."  The  gas- 
jets  were  fretful,  coquettish,  affected.  "It  is  an  out- 
rage! One  is  simply  turned  on  and  turned  off!" 

Horatius  Flaccus  was   social   and   intimate  with 
me  that  day.  "Exegi  monumentum"  he  remarked. 
"You  will  find  it  not  easy  to  forget  me." 
228 


TOBIN'S    MONUMENT 

Monuments!  At  the  University  we  lived  among 
commemorative  buildings;  many  a  silent  dusty  room 
was  dim  with  accumulation  of  thought;  and  there 
men  labored  for  what  but  to  make  a  name? 

The  statue  outside  represented  one  who  took  life 
seriously  in  his  day,  now  with  the  whirling  snow 
about  it,  the  gas-jet  in  front  snapping  petulantly. 
"One  is  simply  turned  on  and  turned  off!" 

"Exegi  monumentum"  continued  Horatius  Flac- 
cus.  "This  is  my  work,  and  it  is  good.  I  shall  not 
all  die,  non  omnis  mormr."  It  seemed  natural  to 
feel  so.  But  how  honorably  the  sunsets  and  twilights 
used  to  go  their  ways  among  the  hills,  contented 
and  leaving  not  a  wrack  behind. 

It  was  a  better  attitude  and  conduct,  that  serene 
security  of  clouds  in  their  absolute  death.  "Non 
omnis  moriar"  was  not  only  a  boast,  but  a  com- 
plaint and  a  protest. 

Still,  as  to  monuments,  one  would  rather  be  me- 
morialized by  one's  own  work  than  by  the  words  of 
other  men,  or  the  indifferent  labor  of  their  chisels. 

"Jlflas  cd-andy!"" 

"Come  in,  Tobin!" 

He  opened  the  door  and  said,  tentatively,  "Pea- 
nuts." 

He  always  spoke  in  a  more  confident  tone  of  the 
229 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

candy  than  of  the  peanuts.  There  was  no  good  rea- 
son for  his  confidence  in  either. 

"Tobin,"  I  said,  "you  don't  want  a  monument?" 

He  kicked  his  feet  together  and  murmured  again, 
"Peanuts." 

His  shoes  were  cracked  at  the  sides.  The  cracks 
were  full  of  snow. 

The  remark  seemed  to  imply  that  he  did  not  ex- 
pect a  monument,  having  no  confidence  in  his  pea- 
nuts. As  a  rule  they  were  soggy  and  half-baked. 

Tobin's  life,  I  thought,  was  too  full  of  the  flux  of 
things;  candy  melted,  peanuts  decayed,  complexion 
changed  from  day  to  day,  his  private  wars  were  but 
momentary  matters.  I  understood  him  to  have  no 
artificial  desires.  Death  would  be  too  simple  an 
affair  for  comment.  He  would  think  of  no  comment 
to  make.  Sunsets  and  twilights  went  out  in  silence; 
Tobiri's  half  of  humanity  nearly  as  dumb.  It  was 
the  other  half  that  was  fussy  on  the  subject. 

"Your  feet  are  wet,  Tobin.  Warm  them.  Your 
shoes  are  no  good." 

Tobin  picked  the  easiest  chair  with  good  judg- 
ment, and  balanced  his  feet  over  the  coals  of  the 
open  stove,  making  no  comment. 

"I  won't  buy  your  peanuts.  They're  sloppy.  I 
might  buy  you  another  pair  of  shoes.  What  do  you 
think?"  230 


TOBIN'S    MONUMENT 

He  looked  at  me,  at  the  shoes,  at  the  wet  basket 
on  his  knees,  but  nothing  elaborate  seemed  to  occur 
to  him.  He  said: 

"Alright."  He  had  great  mental  directness.  I  had 
reached  that  point  in  the  progress  of  young  phi- 
losophy where  the  avoidance  of  fussiness  takes  the 
character  of  a  broad  doctrine:  a  certain  Doric  atti- 
tude was  desired.  Tobin  seemed  to  me  to  have  that 
attitude. 

"If  I  give  you  the  money,  will  you  buy  shoes  or 
cigarettes?" 

"Shoes.11 

"Here,  then.  Got  anything  to  say?11 

He  put  the  bill  into  his  pocket,  and  said: 

"Yep,  Til  buy  'em.11 

His  attitude  was  better  than  mine.  The  common 
wish  to  be  thanked  was  pure  fussiness. 

"Well,  look  here.  You  bring  me  back  the  old 
ones.11 

Even  that  did  not  disturb  him.  The  Doric  atti- 
tude never  questions  other  men^  indifferent  whims. 

"A'right." 

I  heard  him  presently  on  the  lower  floor,  crying, 
"Mulcts  ca-andy!  Peanuts.11 

"I  shall  be  spoken  of,11  continued  Horatius  Flac- 
cus,  calmly,  "by  that  wild  southern  river,  the  Au- 
231 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

fidus,  and  in  many  other  places.  I  shall  be  called  a 
pioneer  in  my  own  line,  princeps  JEolium  carmen 
deduxisse? 

The  night  was  closing  down.  The  gas-light  flick- 
ered on  the  half-hidden  face  of  the  statue,  so  that 
its  grave  dignity  seemed  changed  to  a  shifty,  mock- 
ing smile. 

I  heard  no  more  of  Tobin  for  a  month,  and  prob- 
ably did  not  think  of  him.  There  were  Christmas 
holidays  about,  and  that  week  which  is  called  of 
the  Promenade,  when  one  opens  Horatius  Flaccus 
only  to  wonder  what  might  have  been  the  color  of 
Lydia's  hair,  and  to  introduce  comparisons  that  are 
unfair  to  Lydia. 

It  was  late  in  January.  Some  one  came  and 
thumped  on  the  cracked  panel.  It  was  not  Tobin, 
but  a  stout  woman  carrying  Tobin's  basket,  who 
said  in  an  expressionless  voice: 

"Oi!  Them  shoes.1' 

"What?" 

"You  give  'im  some  shoes." 

"Tobin.  That's  so." 

"I'm  Missus  Tobin." 

She  was  dull-looking,  round-eyed,  gray-haired. 
She  fumbled  in  the  basket,  dropped  something  in 
232 


TOBIN'S     MONUMENT 

wet  paper  on  a  chair,  and  seemed  placidly  prepar- 
ing to  say  more.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  much 
of  Tobin's  mental  directness,  the  Doric  attitude,  the 
neglect  of  comment.  I  asked:  "How's  Tobin?" 

"Oi!  He's  dead." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Tobin.  May  I — " 

"Oi!  Funeral's  this  afternoon.  He  could V  be 
round.  He  was  sick.  Five  weeks  three  days." 

She  went  out  and  down  the  stair,  bumping  back 
and  forth  between  the  wall  and  the  banister. 

On  the  misty  afternoon  of  that  day  I  stood  on 
that  corner  where  more  than  elsewhere  the  city  and 
the  University  meet;  where  hackmen  and  newsboys 
congregate;  where  a  gray  brick  hotel  looks  askance 
at  the  pillared  and  vaulted  entry  of  a  recitation 
hall.  The  front  of  that  hall  is  a  vainglorious  thing. 
Those  who  understand,  looking  dimly  with  half- 
shut  eyes,  may  see  it  change  to  a  mist,  and  in  the 
mist  appear  a  worn  fence,  a  grassless,  trodden  space, 
and  four  tall  trees. 

The  steps  of  the  hall  were  deserted,  except  for 
newsboys  playing  tag  among  the  pillars.  I  asked 
one  if  he  knew  where  Tobin  lived. 

"He's  havin'  a  funeral,"  he  said. 

"Where?" 

"10  Clark  Street." 

233 


THE    DELECTABLE     MOUNTAINS 

"Did  you  know  him?" 

The  others  had  gathered  around.  One  of  them 
said: 

"Tobin  licked  him." 

The  first  seemed  to  think  more  than  ordinary 
justice  should  be  done  a  person  with  a  funeral,  and 
admitted  that  Tobin  had  licked  him. 

No.  10  Clark  Street  was  a  door  between  a  cloth- 
ing shop  and  a  livery  stable.  The  stairway  led  up 
into  darkness.  On  the  third  landing  a  door  stood 
open,  showing  a  low  room.  A  painted  coffin  rested 
on  two  chairs.  Three  or  four  women  sat  about  with 
their  hands  on  their  knees.  One  of  them  was  Mrs. 
Tobin. 

"Funeral's  over,""  she  said,  placidly. 

The  clergyman  from  the  mission  had  come  and 
gone.  They  were  waiting  for  the  city  undertaker. 
But  they  seemed  glad  of  an  interruption  and  looked 
at  me  with  silent  interest. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  to  tell  me  something  about 
him,  Mrs.  Tobin." 

Mrs.  Tobin  reflected.  "There  ain't  nothin1." 

"He  never  ate  no  candy,"  said  one  of  the  women, 
after  a  pause. 

Mrs.  Tobin  sat  stolidly.  Two  large  tears  appeared 
at  length  and  rolled  slowly  down. 
234 


TOBIN'S    MONUMENT 

"It  made  him  dreadful  sick  when  he  was  little. 
That's  why." 

The  third  woman  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"He  said  folks  was  fools  to  eat  candy.  It  was  his 
stomach."" 

"Oi!"said  Mrs.  Tobin. 

I  went  no  nearer  the  coffin  than  to  see  the  com- 
mon grayish  pallor  of  the  face,  and  went  home  in 
the  misty  dusk. 

The  forgotten  wet  bundle  had  fallen  to  the  floor 
and  become  undone. 

By  the  cracks  in  the  sides,  the  down-trodden  heels, 
the  marks  of  keen  experience,  they  were  Tobin's  old 
shoes,  round-toed,  leather-thonged,  stoical,  severe. 

Mrs.  Tobin  had  not  commented.  She  had  brought 
them  merely,  Tobin  having  stated  that  they  were 
mine. 

They  remained  with  me  six  months,  and  were 
known  to  most  men,  who  came  to  idle  or  labor,  as 
"Tobin's  Monument.""  They  stood  on  a  book-shelf, 
with  other  monuments  thought  to  be  cere  perennius, 
more  enduring  than  brass,  and  disappeared  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  when  the  janitor  reigned  supreme. 
There  seemed  to  be  some  far-off  and  final  idea  in 
the  title,  some  thesis  which  never  got  itself  rightly 
stated.  Horatius  Flaccus  was  kept  on  the  shelf  be- 
235 


THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

side  them  in  the  notion  that  the  statement  should 
somehow  be  worked  out  between  them.  And  there 
was  no  definite  result;  but  I  thought  he  grew  more 
diffident  with  that  companionship. 

"Exegi  monumentum.  I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt 
about  that,"  he  would  remark.  "JEre  perennius.  It 
seems  a  trifle  pushing,  so  to  trespass  on  the  atten- 
tion of  posterity.  I  would  rather  talk  of  my  Sabine 
farm.'1 


236 


The  Conclusion  by  the 
Wayfarers 


ALL  honest  things  in  the  world  we  greet 

With  welcome  fair  and  free; 
A  little  love  by  the  way  is  sweet, 

A  friend,  or  two,  or  three; 

Of  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  are  glad, 

Of  the  waters  of  river  and  sea; 
We  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  the  years  we  *ve  had, 

For  the  years  that  yet  shall  be. 

These  are  our  brothers,  the  winds  of  the  airs; 

These  are  our  sisters,  thejlowers. 
Be  near  us  at  evening  and  hear  our  prayers, 

O  God,  in  the  late  gray  hours. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

"  'he  la" date  5ta"'"e" 


- 


'MAR 


997? 


Form  LU-Series  444 


UC  SOUTHERN  HEGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILrrY 


A     000  051  935     5 


